"I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. A town called Foster. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. "And, now,—to Newgate. But to England we will go. All at once it came to him what a fool he was to worry over this phase which was wholly suppositional.
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