She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. This was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different from the ways of other men as regards her sex. I am sure. Stanley poured wine.
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