In one of the big gates was a little door, and she rapped at this. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. 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. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat.
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