" "Look at it, then," said Wild, giving him the portfolio. A curious silence ensued. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. "So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. “They’d better not,” said Hetty.
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