Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. It was precisely two o'clock on the morning of Whit-monday, the 25th of May 1724, when the remarkable escape before detailed was completed: and, though it wanted full two hours to daybreak, the glimmer of a waning moon prevented it from being totally dark. "So she got away as far as this, eh? But where does she come in?" The doctor recounted that side of the tale. He was, however, instantly beaten back; and the fury of the mob was so great that it was with difficulty he could effect a retreat. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. Ennison, or any other young man.
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