‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. . Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not.
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