His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. Spurling. My Mom’s stomach has a lot of bad scars that make it look all ropy and weird. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair.
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