“So is Mr. ” “I don’t understand. Wild had a narrow escape lately, in that affair of Captain Darrell," observed Shotbolt. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. She observed a man walking on the opposite side of the way and looking toward her. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it.
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