“Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. Then pain entered their depths. His voice had broken. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance.
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