The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. He knew she would be there, practicing alone in 118. Then came the javelin-men, walking four abreast, and lastly, a long line of constables, marching in the same order.
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