About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. "Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. He has always plenty of evidence in reserve.
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