But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. Paintings sold off the walls. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. As soon as the manacles were slipped over the prisoner's wrists, and the new padlock secured to the staple, they withdrew. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all.
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