His literary instincts began to stir. The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. The second, comprising the bulk of the jail, and by many degrees worse in point of accommodation, having several dismal and noisome wards under ground, was common both to debtors and malefactors,—an association little favourable to the morals or comforts of the former, who, if they were brought there with any notions of honesty, seldom left with untainted principles. “No, you weren’t bad in the slightest. Too busy. . ‘And this is not all,’ went on the lady, evidently determined to disclose all her wrongs. ‘Wait a minute, though. “Non. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. Instead, God had sent her Sebastianus, a man who had sold his soul to the Devil to gain eternal life, or perhaps he was even the Devil himself. Why am I here—thirty years of loneliness? Because I know women, the good and the bad; and because I could not have the good, I would not take the bad. I've often regretted that I didn't investigate the matter.
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