" "Sir Rowland is dead," replied Jonathan, gloomily. She recoiled. Not far from the entrance, on the left, was a sort of screen, or partition-wall, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, formed of thick oaken planks riveted together by iron bolts, and studded with broad-headed nails. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved. But "fine" is the word. “Thank you.
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