“You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. ‘They weren’t no soldiers. Mother—dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains.
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