Predictably, Charvill turned on him. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. "Prisoner at the bar," thus ran the sentence, "you shall be taken to the prison from whence you came, and put into a mean room, stopped from the light; and shall there be laid on the bare ground, without any litter, straw, or other covering, and without any garment. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. And nowhere could I obtain the slightest information.
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