"Those chops, fried potatoes, and buttered toast. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. They are blinded to all fine and subtle things —they look at life with bloodshot eyes and dilated nostrils. We shall be equally matched. The stranger turned his head at the sound. "Have a little patience, Sir," rejoined the jailer.
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