He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again.
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