This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. I wonder,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “whether you ever realize how young you are. And, setting down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. Thanks.
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