The advanced guard rode on to drive away any opposition, while the main body of the procession crossed the bridge, and slowly toiled up Holborn Hill. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. 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. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. You do not understand, and you would like to. . . First, look at this glove.
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