On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. You’re a piss-poor liar, John. “He dissembles,” he said. Here you are, young, sound, with a heart that will recover in no time, provided you keep liquor out of it. Or, if you must take off my clothes, don't dash cold water on my head. Marvel, then, took two iron weights, each of a hundred pounds, and placed them in the press.
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