She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. “The bravest of us have joints in our armour.
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