\" He said to her as he threw the gear into Park. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual.
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