” Lucy put her hand to her heart and pulled one of her kinky curls straight. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. Adjoining it was the Lower Ward,—"Though, in what degree of latitude it was situated," observes Ned Ward, "I cannot positively demonstrate, unless it lay ninety degrees beyond the North Pole; for, instead of being dark there but half a year, it is dark all the year round. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. Every gibbet at Tyburn and Hounslow appeared to have been plundered of its charnel spoil to enrich the adjoining cabinet, so well was it stored with skulls and bones, all purporting to be the relics of highwaymen famous in their day. Then she took her sister’s hand.
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