Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. They trudged and talked, and Manning struggled, as he said, to “get the hang of it all.
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