He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. " "Then I'll lend a helping hand.
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