During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him.
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