His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. When he awoke, it was late in the day; but though he heard voices outside, and now and then caught a glimpse of a face peeping at him through the iron grating over the door, no one entered the prison, or held any communication with him. “Just think about what you are asking, John, please. It was then, I am sure, empty. I daresay that is one of the names of the nuns in your convent. ‘Help yourself, Hilary. . . One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing.
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