Just at the completion of the new jail, in 1780, it was assailed by the mob during the Gordon riots, fired, and greatly damaged. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears. "You are alone?" said one of the spinsters—Prudence Jedson. In this screen, which masked the entrance of a dark passage communicating with the Condemned Hold, about five feet from the ground, was a hatch, protected by long spikes set six inches apart, and each of the thickness of an elephant's tusk. One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. The deafening report froze time. But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside.
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