\"Mike, don't call Lucy a liar. "Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. "To Newgate," cried Jonathan, putting his head out of the window. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. He was even a little jealous of Sebastian. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. It was a haunted place. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal.
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