When he could find words, he tried by the most urgent solicitations to prevail upon the constable to let him out. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Thames did not try to cheer her. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. "And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. Poe is all right, if you don't mind nightmares. Look at these walls. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. He could neither stifle nor deaden that.
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