But I can give it its name now. 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. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life.
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