She passed down the stairs and into the street. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. Not so bad. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. “Not too bad. “You should quit.
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