Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. Martin’s eyes seemed about to pop out of his head. You want music. . . 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.
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