Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair. She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. “I saw his face in a mirror. We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again. ” She looked thoughtfully into the fire. " "Six weeks!" exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone.
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