The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. Then she called a hansom and drove home. He declined supper, but took wine.
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