The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. With his black and gray hair, his gray-green eyes were a striking contrast and he looked even younger, as if he had been frozen at age thirty-three. He had him removed from the Condemned Hold, stripped of his fine apparel, clothed in the most sordid rags, loaded with additional fetters, and thrust into the Stone Hold,—already described as the most noisome cell in the whole prison. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. . You know—I worship you. I said I’d make shirts.
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