At six o'clock, the wicket was shut; and at nine, the jail was altogether locked up. It is nothing at all for you to worry about. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. “But I am judge of that,” said Manning. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper.
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