These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. Rushing towards the entrance of the well-hole, Blueskin touched the secret spring. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. “Not at all.
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