“Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. Swinging her arm in an arc, she let go of the foil and it flew across the chapel towards the main door, crashing down between the pews, and clattering onto the floor. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. Speedily recovering himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, "You are mistaken, Sir. Find out what I have done or failed to do. ‘We were wondering about that.
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