And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o' Refuge, in the New Mint. Amidship there was also canvas, and like that over the wheel, drab and dirty. “No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. Like most officers, he’d had it especially made, for a man who loved danger had need of a precision instrument of defence. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness.
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