He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour; the same proud cast of features. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. Years ago I marked out an intinerary for myself; but the trip never materialized. Surely he was imagining this picture.
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