"What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. “I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. 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.
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