Lucia watched in fascination as Isobella nodded at her, only three years older than she, nursing her son with a contented smile upon her face. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. He too, when she had disappeared, called a carriage. Wood, who had merely absented himself to see that a public breakfast, which he had ordered at the Six Bells for all who chose to partake of it, was in readiness.
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