clink


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clink

n. jail. We’ll throw you in the clink if you don’t talk.
References in classic literature ?
That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet.
But to the Sheriff it seemed as if every clink of the bright money was a drop of blood from his veins.
The band again struck up, the count and countess kissed, and the guests, leaving their seats, went up to "congratulate" the countess, and reached across the table to clink glasses with the count, with the children, and with one another.
The thump of jugs set down on the floor above could be heard and the clink of china, for there was not as thick a partition between the rooms as one might wish, so Miss Allan, the elderly lady who had been playing bridge, determined, giving the wall a smart rap with her knuckles.
I have not heard clink of steel this month or more.
They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps.
Then I heard a clink of plates somewhere; and the answer stood up as plain as St.
Briggs too well heard the creaking Firkin descend the stairs, and the clink of the spoon and gruel-basin the neglected female carried.
Thus entrenched, we had stood an hour, watching a pair of lighted bow-windows with vague shadows flitting continually across the blinds, and listening to the drawing of corks, the clink of glasses, and a gradual crescendo of coarse voices within.
We heard the clink of ice in the glasses, pouring sounds, the shuffling of feet, the scraping of chairs.
He regretted the clink of sabre and spurs on a fine afternoon, the barrack-room witticisms, the girls of garrison towns; but, besides, he had also a sense of grievance.
The sensational clink of these fetters is heard all through the chapters describing his escape-- a subject of wonder to two continents.
In two hours, six-and-thirty fires were raging--six-and-thirty great conflagrations: among them the Borough Clink in Tooley Street, the King's Bench, the Fleet, and the New Bridewell.
At this end of the Yard and over the gateway, was the factory of Daniel Doyce, often heavily beating like a bleeding heart of iron, with the clink of metal upon metal.
Again he clinks his metal castanet, and leads us leisurely away.