Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. The hope that had been suddenly kindled in the youth's bosom was as suddenly extinguished. He said the place had gone to wrack. It generalized everything she put to it. I thank God for the very skin that is peeling from your nose, for all things great and small that make us what we are. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains.
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