She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. 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. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. “Drugs, mainly.
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