Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. A cold shiver came over her. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. When I've escorted you proud fool to his new quarters, I'll proceed to the Mint and look after Jack Sheppard. Why he paid so much attention to Sir James Thornhill may be explained anon. Are you sure what it is you want of me?” “I want you.
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