She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it. Directly dinner was over Mr. . Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. Clearing the recess the instant after his companion, he flew to the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took out the key. ‘Eh bien?’ She thrust again, from the same place.
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