I thought every one had heard about it. "Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command. But I don’t think she lays hold of one so. Jonathan, however, paid no sort of attention to this demonstration of hatred. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. But still she knew they were not right, and at times they became a horrible obsession as of something waiting for her round the corner.
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