Her father was holding her waist, smiling. “Let us escape,” she said. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. Meantime, the Stone Hall was crowded by all the inmates of the jail, debtors, felons, turnkeys, and officers who could obtain permission to witness the ceremony of the prisoner's irons being struck off. He told some of the particulars. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about.
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