It was a brief solitude, however. The Ragged Edge. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. Time wore on somewhat slowly with the prisoner, who had to control his impatience in the best way he could; but as the shades of evening were darkening, the door was unlocked, and Mr.
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