Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. “Home, of course,” she answered. Death belongs to God, young man. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. I am used, you understand, to guard my secret. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs.
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