The farmer had become obsessed with her and asked her to marry. “No, no,” she cried. Let us be gone. You can, too, if you wish. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. Flowers, theatre boxes, carriages, the “open sesame” to the whole world of pleasure. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. It won’t even know whether to be scandalized at us or forgiving.
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