Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Here I am. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. Then, though full of confidence, he half doubted his power of accomplishing his designs. “I am sick of it. ” “Your knowledge of our ways,” he murmured “is profound. It does not matter to him either way. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind.
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