No one was allowed to pass along Newgate Street, which was barricaded and protected by a strong constabulary force. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair. He turned to her and pinned her against the headrest with his kisses. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. There was a moment’s breathless and disappointed silence.
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