It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. Or perhaps my father once. This was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different from the ways of other men as regards her sex. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. Taking hold of the hilt of his own foil, he drew it forth. He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last. .
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