"Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. I gather you wish to go up in some fantastic get-up, wrapped about in your opera cloak, and that after the festivities you propose to stay with these friends of yours, and without any older people in your party, at an hotel. I was afraid of being talked about. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. They must have a key. I’ve been waiting all my life to get out of this town. I secured the dog after he had wounded me. It's gin—a liquor you used to like.
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