In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. His subjects, however, were no longer entirely under his control; and, though he managed to enforce some little attention to his commands, it was evident his authority was waning fast. He waved a cordial goodbye. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. “She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away.
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