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. You are not my husband. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. By Jasus! he's about to spake to us.
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