She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. " At this moment, Saint Sepulchre's clock struck six. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. "Your son's father was a thief; and Jonathan Wild (unless I'm misinformed,) was his friend,—so it's not unnatural he should show some partiality towards Jack. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands.
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