"Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning," said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. Darting to a window looking in that direction, Thames threw it up, and discharged both his pistols, but without effect. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. During that period she has been a model of propriety. There was no way to warn her of his presence without startling her. .
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