In fact, Gerald had given order to the coachman to drive out of Golden Square and then stop around the corner. There was absolute quiet. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. Give me the books. . Blood, they say, won't come out. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door.
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