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The coach in which the prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the driver was glad to escape with life. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. His manner was deferential, even eager. You might even tire of me by then, you know. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark.
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