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In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. No matter what happened, whether the road smoothed out or became still rougher, he would always be carrying this secret with him; and each time he recalled it, the rack. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. Be silent, I say, if you value his safety.
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