‘You are there. 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. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon. There was something markedly and deliberately liberal-minded in his manner in all their encounters.
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