"Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. Play foul, and win. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. Her efforts were vain. After venting his wrath in the wildest manner, and uttering the most dreadful execrations, Jonathan retired to another part of the prison, where he passed the night in consultation with the governor, as to the best means of conveying the prisoner securely to Tyburn.
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