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In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous prison belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (whose palace formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its name to the street, along which he walked: and noticing, with some uneasiness, the melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through its barred casements, the carpenter followed his companion down an opening to the right, and presently arrived at the water-side. Between him and the beach stood the sum of six hundred dollars. “Did you ever see women so weary-looking and so dowdy? They do not talk. This—this shatters a world!” She tried to feel sorry, but her sense of his immense egotism was strong and clear.
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