The sound produced something half rhythmical, like a broken tune in search of itself, and the change of sentinels made no perceptible difference in the regular nature of the unceasing noise.
Dumnoff, relieved of his handcuffs, stretched himself upon the pallet assigned to him, clasped his hands under the back of his head, and stared at the ceiling.

The Count sat upon the edge of his board, crossing one knee over the other and looking at his nails, or trying to look at them in the insufficient light.

In some distant part of the building a door was occasionally opened and shut, and the slight concussion sent long echoes down the stone passages.

The Count sighed audibly.
"It is not so bad, after all," remarked Dumnoff.

"I did not expect to end the evening so comfortably." "It is bad enough," said the Count.