The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. "Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command. ‘I escape from a fate entirely misérable, you understand. I didn’t get it, why she put on the innocent act. Milky sunlight spilled on the floor. I never forgive an injury. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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