She had changed into dungarees herself and kept her hair as it was. One called Waterman's Hall, a horrible place adjoining the postern under the gate, whence, through a small barred aperture, they solicited alms from the passengers: the other, a large chamber, denominated My Lady's Hold, was situated in the highest part of the jail, at the northern extremity. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. "Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. . . Thames," she urged, "the errand, on which you're going, can't be for any good, or you wouldn't be afraid of mentioning it to my father.
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