Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. After a while, he raised his eyes; and, if their glance could have been witnessed at the moment, it could not have been easily forgotten. 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. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. ‘Eh bien?’ She thrust again, from the same place.
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