The floor was planked with oak, and covered with iron staples, hooks, and ringbolts, with heavy chains attached to them. It was ten feet long, a relic. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. I will not trust you. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. He has hanged twelve of his associates already. Like carpenter, like chips. “I hope that whatever your plans may be, you will give me the opportunity of seeing something of you now and then. CHAPTER XI.
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