Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. And taking the keys, he departed on the errand. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. She became more assertive, more defiant. " "Does that villain still maintain his power?" asked the stranger sternly. She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light.
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