The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder. I was in hopes you'd be content with my hat and wig. He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face. Both these ladies possessed considerable personal attractions. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still.
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