Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. He was confined in the Middle Stone Ward, a spacious apartment, with good light and air, situated over the gateway on the western side, and allotted to him, not for his own convenience, but for that of the keepers, who, if he had been placed in a gloomier or more incommodious dungeon, would have necessarily had to share it with him. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Besides, your remark is not in the least complimentary. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn. The poor things! Oh, it was quite dreadful. ‘That’s why I’m asking.
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