A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. Then—then we shall be together. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. I could never make you understand.
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