The arrested women were herded in a passage of the Panton Street Police-station that opened upon a cell too unclean for occupation, and most of them spent the night standing. The evenings were dulcet and soft. They are arbitrary and unjust and dogmatic and brutish and lustful. ‘Not in the open street. "Ah! Terry O'Flaherty!" vociferated Jonathan, in a tone that betrayed hot the slightest discomposure. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster.
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