It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. It probably had its own repulsive oubliette in the bottom, where tiny princesses could fall and break their necks. "Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone. “What a little brick!” he murmured. 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.
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