The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. " The clock tinkled ten. Inside was the blue stone she had lost in the 1800’s. 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. He was tender with her as he had not been in years. Meanwhile, Mr. Well, I told aunt.
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