Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. It could not go on much longer, her luck. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage. But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair.
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