But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. "You've got him?" demanded Ireton. "Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command. Fortunately, I've secured the proof of my birth. She moved forward almost indiscernibly, a millimeter. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely.
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