‘You, soldiers,’ she yelled. Not for me. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. Her pulses began to race. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. It is we who have become the parasites and toys.
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