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. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. You can pay me when we return. It is queer, but men of education and good birth fall swiftest and lowest. ” For some seconds he had remained quite still. Perhaps you will meet him someday. She looked around the apartment for other people.
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