A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. Plote was sleeping or deaf. There was a man, a boy, and a woman. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. The Law was around the corner and down the narrow hall, puffing a Virginia Slims Menthol in frantic sips, teetering uncomfortably out of an emergency exit door.
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