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But first, we’ve got to secure the convent. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. 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. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. He thought he heard a scraping sound as he turned the handle.
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