The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her. Still, the respite was sufficient for Spurlock to look about for some weapon. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. "I suppose I must have been senseless for some time; for, on coming to myself, I found this gash in my head, and the ground covered with blood. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. But d—n him! let's talk o' something more agreeable. . '—'They can't,' says I.
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