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. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. I don’t care WHAT happens. However, not a moment is to be lost. Every moment or two he bent over his patient. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips.
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