The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. That's how I finally got wind of it. She began to tremble violently. Sebastian was physically beautiful, she reflected. He sat up in his chair again, the colour came back to his cheeks. She dressed rapidly and left the theatre without a word to any one. .
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