Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. “Listen to me. The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it.
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