Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. Above this revolting spot was the female debtor's ward; below it a gloomy cell, called Tangier; and, lower still, the Stone Hold, a most terrible and noisome dungeon, situated underground, and unvisited by a single ray of daylight. How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs.
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