" "I'm no reader of riddles," said Jonathan. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. “How have you been lately, Lucy? You’ve been such a stranger. This gate, called Newgate, "as being latelier builded than the rest," continued, for upwards of three hundred years, to be used as a place of imprisonment for felons and trespassers; at the end of which time, having grown old, ruinous, and "horribly loathsome," it was rebuilt and enlarged by the executors of the renowned Sir Richard Whittington, the Lord Mayor of London: whence it afterwards obtained amongst a certain class of students, whose examinations were conducted with some strictness at the Old Bailey, and their highest degrees taken at Hyde-park-corner, the appellation of Whittington's College, or, more briefly, the Whit. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released.
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