C below. The Ragged Edge. The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. He felt the first sting of the whip. “She has nothing to be afraid of,” he continued.
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