She knew it. But probably not the truth. The prisoner, however, submitted more quietly than was anticipated. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. "You are arrested for high treason," rejoined Wild, presenting a pistol at his head, while he drew forth a parchment,—"here is my warrant. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself.
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