She examined Michelle’s pale face. Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated in a manner as unexpected as appalling. Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped. The cage at Willesden was, and is—for it is still standing—a small round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked.
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