"His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. There are a thousand questions I'd like to ask you, but I sha'n't ask them. Your aunt liked the pheasant. Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him. A man’s children nowadays are not his own.
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