" Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. The Press Room, to which Blueskin was conveyed on his arrival at the jail, was a small square chamber, walled and paved with stone. ” The note of his own voice exasperated him. It fell to the ground and smoked ominously. His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. It was horrible, but she must do it. Apparently he thought it very much worth while.
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