Oblige me by acting under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. The south or principal front, looking, down the Old Bailey, and not upon it, as is the case of the present structure, with its massive walls of roughened freestone,—in some places darkened by the smoke, in others blanched, by exposure to the weather,—its heavy projecting cornice, its unglazed doubly-grated windows, its gloomy porch decorated with fetters, and defended by an enormous iron door, had a stern and striking effect. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. Well aware that the doors in this passage were much stronger than those in the entry he had just quitted he was neither surprised nor dismayed to find it fastened by a lock of unusual size. The Night-Cellar. .
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