"Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release.
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