The rumor mills churned with the news that he harbored for her no ill will, but was simply too busy in his life to have a girlfriend that wasn’t “serious”. She passed down the stairs and into the street. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. He's passed through some rough mental torture.
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