Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. The air was crisp and dry. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. The prison was two stories high, with a flat roof surmounted by a gilt vane fashioned like a key; and, possessing considerable internal accommodation, it had, in its day, lodged some thousands of disorderly personages. “Ass!” he went on, still warming. Spurlock bent his head to the rail. “Neither Sydney nor I would think of such a thing. I love you more. Wood, in a taunting tone.
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