‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. She thought of Sebastian who often returned from the charnel house that the outside world had become. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous prison belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (whose palace formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its name to the street, along which he walked: and noticing, with some uneasiness, the melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through its barred casements, the carpenter followed his companion down an opening to the right, and presently arrived at the water-side.
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