“Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. She was shifting, moving back. The cage at Willesden was, and is—for it is still standing—a small round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. “You!” said Ann Veronica. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair.
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