“You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. He had him removed from the Condemned Hold, stripped of his fine apparel, clothed in the most sordid rags, loaded with additional fetters, and thrust into the Stone Hold,—already described as the most noisome cell in the whole prison. These things illuminated her situation extremely.
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