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. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. Prudence was the substance and Angelina the shadow; for Angelina never offered opinions, she only agreed with those advanced by Prudence. “You are magnificent,” she said, “but the steel of your truth is a little oversharpened. “No, no,” she cried. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. Your second turn is not over, is it?” She laughed a little hardly.
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