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. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. Gold-handled, too. Now he would take her away from the house before killing her, and no one would find her body at all. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. "I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast. ‘What is it?’ asked Roding.
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