From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. Presently he heard her voice. Amid the confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack's head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the jailer's arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him, dragged him to the ground. Into the second, denominated the Bilbowes,—also a dismal place,—refractory prisoners were thrust, and placed in a kind of stocks, whence the name. Lord, I am sixty.
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