When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. She shrugged her shoulders. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind. Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. Against the walls hung an assortment of staves, brown-bills, (weapons then borne by the watch,) muskets, handcuffs, great-coats, and lanterns.
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