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. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. But I’m thinking as how I’d best report to the major over this here shooting.
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