From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. They had escaped from the New Prison, it is true; but the wall of Clerkenwell Bridewell, by which that jail was formerly surrounded, and which was more than twenty feet high, and protected by formidable and bristling chevaux de frise, remained to be scaled. There was a case, or something, some years ago.
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