Throwing the blanket over his left arm and shouldering the iron bar, he again clambered up the chimney; regained the Red Room; hurried along the first passage; crossed the Chapel; threaded the entry to the Lower Leads; and, in less than ten minutes after quitting the Castle, had reached the northern extremity of the prison. He told her something about music, the great world outside. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. I’m damaged goods. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone.
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