At this point a carriage with servants in sumptuous liveries was stationed. His eyes were red. ‘Sapristi,’ he gasped. “How are those books any different from the witchcraft books?” “I dunno. The arrested women were herded in a passage of the Panton Street Police-station that opened upon a cell too unclean for occupation, and most of them spent the night standing. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr.
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