Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. She laughed altogether in her old manner. And so Winifred understood him. She spent many days in the castle alone as he busied himself with his alchemy, or traveled to Florence to visit his remaining political connections. That is what I don't understand.
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