It was the grand nursery of vice. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Ah! I shall never forget the figure Jack cut on that occasion. Mr. "Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully. Having drunk as much as he thought prudent, and thanked his unknown friend for his attention, Jack again lay down on the straw, and indulged himself with another nap, intending to get up as soon as it was perfectly dark. Stonily he had disengaged himself.
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