She felt that Ann Veronica had duped her in that dream, and now that she had come up to London she might as well speak her mind. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. It filled her with indefinable fear. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. One called Waterman's Hall, a horrible place adjoining the postern under the gate, whence, through a small barred aperture, they solicited alms from the passengers: the other, a large chamber, denominated My Lady's Hold, was situated in the highest part of the jail, at the northern extremity. He knocked at the door. Footman or some such. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily.
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