Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by night. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. ‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am. Even now, my problems begin to catch up with me; they will discover me soon. No matter what they do, always someone to bolster them up, to lend them money, and to coddle them. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. If so I shall have to leave. A wide terrace then led to large iron gates,' over which were placed the two celebrated figures of Raving and Melancholy Madness, executed by the elder Cibber, and commemorated by Pope in the Dunciad, in the wellknown lines:— "Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where, o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand.
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