" "Blueskin, clear the room," cried the Master; "these gentlemen would be private. Find your man, that’s the rule. She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. I said I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work—that you shared all Russell’s opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure—and that we couldn’t possibly face a conventional marriage. The unfortunate prisoner, meanwhile, who was not informed of the respite, languished in his horrible dungeon, and, at the expiration of three weeks, became so seriously indisposed that it was feared he could not long survive.
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