A lucky escape. Lucy paced outside of the stone bricked room until her mother began to scream. The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. “How unkind!” she exclaimed. “They mould one insensibly. Here was one that subtly mocked her. "My plan is a very simple one," rejoined the thief-taker smiling bitterly.
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