The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. Whatever she does is minimized. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears. You must tell me what it all means. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. My whole life shall be devoted to you, beloved girl. Somewhere, where we can talk without interruption.
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