Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table. ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. “No, John, you won’t understand. And all this time perhaps you have been waiting, expecting to hear from me. ” Ennison looked steadily at the cigarette which he was tapping on his forefinger. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. ” The man nodded. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely.
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