"'T warn't for you, miss," she said hoarsely to Sara one night when she had crept into the attic—"'t warn't for you, an' the Bastille, an' bein' the prisoner in the next cell, I should die. That there does seem real now,doesn't it? The missus is more like the head jailer every day she lives. I can jest see them big keys you say she carries. The cook she's like one of the under jailers. Tell me some more, please, miss—tell me about the subt'ranean passage we've dug under the walls."
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