You are different from all the world for me. —Strype's Stow. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. Here he was preparing to leap over the hedge into the fields on the left, when he was intercepted by two horsemen, who, hearing the shouts, rode up and struck at him with the butt-ends of their heavy riding-whips. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said.
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