Prudence Remenham. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. 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. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. “I’m a big boy, you know. ” He seemed bored. ’ ‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought. ‘Go then. \" He commented heartily, wiping the sweat from his brow with his hand.
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