The hope that had been suddenly kindled in the youth's bosom was as suddenly extinguished. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour; the same proud cast of features. His feet would have the firm texture of his hands. I have worn it for weeks and weeks. “I am so sorry. But me, I am going to England.
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