I don’t think they do matter. They both listened intently. Not a word passed between them. "Well?" he whispered. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the great shrouded shapes of the furniture. Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous prison belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (whose palace formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its name to the street, along which he walked: and noticing, with some uneasiness, the melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through its barred casements, the carpenter followed his companion down an opening to the right, and presently arrived at the water-side.
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