Wood. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. “I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. Both girls looked pale and listless. 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. Heaven alone knows why. One must be on guard. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son.
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