“It isn’t a joke,” she said. "You've perjured yourself. I have never wept since that day. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. Everything is being done that can be. Very romantic and all that. However, it doesn't much signify. He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour; the same proud cast of features. She was still good at following orders. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew.
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