“Ugh!” she said. There was an eerie sense of brooding menace about an uninhabited establishment. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. No: I must face it out.
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