The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. Meanwhile, the object of all this fearful disturbance had made his escape to Newgate, from the roof of which he witnessed the destruction of his premises. "Any price was better than your head. I know he is dead. I was orphaned a long time ago. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up.
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