Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. “All right, Dunster,” he said. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it.
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