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. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. ‘Ah.
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