There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. I feel almost inclined to regret the fact. .
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