Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid.
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