" "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. As she came in this morning she saw that the lamp was still burning in the study; so she stopped at the door. ‘You must think me a fool, mademoiselle.
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