He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “Come on. Befuddle yourself, if you want to. "Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command. O God! O God!" And he appeared convulsed with agony. 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.
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