My garden-close would be a better thing than that. Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him. Sir John once more looked around him. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. She almost sprang to her feet. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. Presently.
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