Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. 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. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. .
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