She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him. 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. Nigel Ennison was he. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent.
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