\"What's in there?\" Lucy asked. “Idiot!” She raged inwardly while she walked along with that air of self-contained serenity that is proper to a young lady of nearly two-and-twenty under the eye of the world. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. Cathy reached out and touched Lucy’s chin with her two fingers, gently commanding her attention. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable. And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot.
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