The first of these, the Press Room, a dark close chamber, near Waterman's Hall, obtained its name from an immense wooden machine kept in it, with which such prisoners as refused to plead to their indictments were pressed to death—a species of inquisitorial torture not discontinued until so lately as the early part of the reign of George the Third, when it was abolished by an express statute. I went to her rooms to-night. Wood,—"he'll never mend. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. The room seemed a vacuum. Your name?" "Owen Wood," replied the carpenter; "I've no reason to be ashamed of it. The door opened.
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