Always the other things remained. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. Altogether different. "Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. The rejection caught him like a slap in the face. That was an admission all right.
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