She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. One of the reasons why I left Paris and came to London was because there was a man there who wanted me to marry him. The first of these, the Press Room, a dark close chamber, near Waterman's Hall, obtained its name from an immense wooden machine kept in it, with which such prisoners as refused to plead to their indictments were pressed to death—a species of inquisitorial torture not discontinued until so lately as the early part of the reign of George the Third, when it was abolished by an express statute. She looked about and discovered a door partially hidden by shadow. On a high chair behind a raised counter the stipendiary’s substitute regarded her malevolently over his glasses.
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