I understand. The likeness was ridiculous. Jack had well-nigh fallen too. She made noises between weeping and laughter as she went. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. 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. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. It wasn’t pretty.
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