—Though if my name should become as famous as theirs, it wouldn't much matter. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. If the principal instigator of the crime, whom I afterwards encountered on the platform, and who was dashed into the raging flood by the shower of bricks, escaped, his preservation must have been indeed miraculous. Apparently I’m not to exist yet. She sighed with relief.
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