Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. Meantime, O'Higgins wended his way to the Victoria, mulling over this and that phase, all matters little and big that bore upon the chase. “Mr. "Is your master at home?" inquired the jailer. The perception of him flooded her being. “I have noticed,” he said, “that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life.
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