Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. "Alone?" "Not exactly, Sir. And you talk like that! What the devil have you been up to, to land in this bog?" It was a cast at random.
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