She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. Master and missis have been talking all day long about Jack Sheppard, and I'm dying to read his life. “Her husband was a county councillor, and she has a niece who comes to see her in a carriage. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning.
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