The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. Maybe later. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any stretch of silence would be dangerous.
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