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Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. The ragged edge. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked.
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