She addressed Capes as though she spoke to him alone. Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous prison belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (whose palace formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its name to the street, along which he walked: and noticing, with some uneasiness, the melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through its barred casements, the carpenter followed his companion down an opening to the right, and presently arrived at the water-side. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here. Ruth was something to study for future copy; she was almost unbelievable. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further.
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