He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. He stole his chance and thrust his hand towards hers. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. Lost me place, that’s all. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. Shortly to be executed.
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