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At last came the door, a low, iron-spiked grating, like any other of the hundred we had passed. "Key-metal is not often weared on this cell," the man chuckled. "Those stay not long above ground that bide here." The door swung back on its creaking hinges. I slipped the fellow another gold piece.
A deserting soldier in a Traveller's Rest, what lay hid up to the chin under a lot of taturs, learnt me to read; and a travelling Giant what signed his name at a penny a time learnt me to write. I warn't locked up as often now as formerly, but I wore out my good share of key-metal still.
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