Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. She had never said anything so horrible to anyone in her life. She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat. One called Waterman's Hall, a horrible place adjoining the postern under the gate, whence, through a small barred aperture, they solicited alms from the passengers: the other, a large chamber, denominated My Lady's Hold, was situated in the highest part of the jail, at the northern extremity. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls.
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