"In favour of my son. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Independently of other risks, and of the chance of breaking his neck in the descent, he was aware that to reach the leads he should have to break open six of the strongest doors of the prison. Since Mary predeceased Jarvis, Nicholas could scarcely argue himself to be my brother’s next of kin. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. “Rubbish!” he answered. Stanley, and paused. Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over.
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