. . No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. “Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. 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. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. Ann Veronica realized that she was alone with the world. "If I had my old tools with me, we'd soon master this obstacle," he muttered.
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