Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. They were both dressed in every respect alike. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. ‘I can manage now. One OUGHT to want to please her. ‘To where has he gone off?’ ‘No use asking me,’ shrugged the captain. Brown or Jones, I dare say.
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