“Sure. She covered herself with her arms. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. The first of these, the Press Room, a dark close chamber, near Waterman's Hall, obtained its name from an immense wooden machine kept in it, with which such prisoners as refused to plead to their indictments were pressed to death—a species of inquisitorial torture not discontinued until so lately as the early part of the reign of George the Third, when it was abolished by an express statute. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. " "Well, well, I'm not within a minute," rejoined the turnkey. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. " "A key!" exclaimed Wood eagerly. . A few seconds sufficed to clear the passage, through which it had previously cost him more than two hours to force his way.
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