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He put his arms around her in a circular embrace. They would be partners only in loneliness. I was mean to him. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. 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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