Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. ‘Never fear, my love. The general had little doubt he was going to be asked to provide for the fellow as well as for his legitimate descendant. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away. We close the chapter.
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