‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. His eyes were set too close together. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. Baffled in their attempt, the mob uttered a roar, such as only a thousand angry voices can utter, and discharged a volley of missiles at the soldiery. Her eye wandered quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her son formed the principal figure. Her long arms handled the sword with a memorized ease and grace.
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