But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. I have only just left Wych Street. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. Like the Castle, which it resembled in all respects except that it was destitute even of a barrack-bedstead, the Red Room was reserved for state-prisoners, and had not been occupied since the year 1716, when the jail, as has before been mentioned, was crowded by the Preston rebels. This gloom was impossible. "I won't trouble you further, Jack," he remarked. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls.
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