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. Gerald raised his cockaded hat, and smiled. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. “Yes I did. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. .
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