She turned towards the door, and had taken a pace towards it when it was flung open. . 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. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. And all to find that picture of Mary Remenham.
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