“No, Lucy, because Satan does not exist. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. "No"—as if her thoughts were elsewhere. She pulled her hand away quickly. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside.
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