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. “But you do not know,” she whispered, “whether I am a married woman or not. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. Never mind. He is extremely old—forty at least—and he has a belly excessively fat.
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