He was six blocks away from his home, a ten story building apparently made solely of glass. ‘Nevertheless, you will marry me,’ he snarled. Old Newgate was divided into three separate prisons,—the Master's Side, the Common Side, and the Press Yard. For a few minutes he kept them at bay. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play.
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