Still, his robust frame enabled him to hold out. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. "Oh! that was all, was it?" said the turnkey, quietly reseating himself. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. You don’t have to live forever to understand that.
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