She was gone. The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern. They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy. She was to see Capes to-morrow, but now, in this state of misery she had achieved, she felt assured he would turn his back upon her, take no notice of her at all. He could scarcely blame her. A common rage flushed their faces. 175 “Before you tell me the whole story,” she emphasized the penultimate word, “just let me do something for you. You’re a far cry from your usual gloomy self these days. “I don’t understand.
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