“Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. Ah, no, I have it wrong. It forbids—all sorts of things. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony.
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