At once. Dolby was portly and handsome. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box,
"that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart
sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. Side by side with the cheese
(its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a
tankard of swig, and a toast. Not much to his surprise, Jack Kimble shook his head. “We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he said. Here, without a glimpse of daylight; visited by
no one except Austin at stated intervals, who neither answered a question nor
addressed a word to him; fed upon the worst diet, literally mouldy bread and
ditch-water; surrounded by stone walls; with a flagged floor for his pillow, and
without so much as a blanket to protect him from the death-like cold that pierced
his frame,—Jack's stout heart was subdued, and he fell into the deepest
dejection, ardently longing for the time when even a violent death should
terminate his sufferings.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 01-07-2024 18:59:11