Lucy gestured to Michelle to follow her downstairs. ‘Come on, Hilary. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. ‘And that object confirms me in the belief that it is not I who will shortly meet my maker. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger.
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