"Be it as you please," replied Winifred. They negotiated several steps, and then the stair turned a corner. Enough to let her find out a piece of information most urgent. It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. “Yes. Do you know this, Sir?" he added, taking a key from his pocket. Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. She had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet. Nigel Ennison was he. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right.
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