‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. Sir John felt hot and furious. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. " "I should think not," observed Jonathan, who had some practice in the knight's moods, and knew how to humour him.
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