"Do you take me for as great a villain as yourself, Sir?" said the knight, rising. I’m convinced that much of Russell’s investigations are on wrong lines, unsound lines. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. I’ve had my time and lost my chances.
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