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. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. We aren't between him and heaven; he is between us and heaven.
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