She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. The jealous burn at his eyes subsided and his finger came up. “Would you wait for me?” Manning was silent for a space. A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. 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. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. Nothing disheartened by this survey, Jack set to work upon the lock, which he attacked with all his implements;—now attempting to pick it with the nail;— now to wrench it off with the bar: but all without effect.
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