The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. I swear it. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate.
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