"While I live you are safe," rejoined Trenchard; "after my death I can answer for nothing. Ennison, or any other young man. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. He told her something about music, the great world outside. I think that you might break Martin’s heart if you don’t. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves.
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