"He can't get out. ” She looked thoughtfully into the fire. " He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. But I don’t think she lays hold of one so. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. "My little fancy man's quite as fond of me as of you, Bess. "Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning," said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. ” The conversation hung. Least of all myself.
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