I've told you about him; and you wrote a shrewd yarn on the subject. "The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper. 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. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. But here the resemblance stopped. For a while he threatened her. I did not lay any traps for her.
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