The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. The man asked twelve guineas, but after a little bargaining, he came down to ten. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. “I think she would,” she decided. ” Anna laid down her serviette. The father was a madman. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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