I don’t care. Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears. 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. On the left there were doors communicating with the King's Bench Ward and the Stone Ward, two large holds on the Master Debtors' side. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. " "Mad as you are, you're the more sensible of the two, I must say," rejoined Jonathan.
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