"How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. ’ He reddened a little, and shuffled his feet. She got up and unlocked the door. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. ’ She thrust him out of the room and made for the stairs. ’ Then memory hit and he stared at his friend. Regardless of the risk he incurred from some heavy stone dropping on his head or feet,—regardless also of the noise made by the falling rubbish, and of the imminent danger which he consequently ran of being interrupted by some of the jailers, should the sound reach their ears, he continued to pull down large masses of the wall, which he flung upon the floor of the cell. He drew out the check and the editorial letter.
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