His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. "Thames, this is no forgery. This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner's breast. He obeyed, letting the garment fall to the floor.
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