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“Oh, makaire! dearest and best,” asked Hermione, her hands touching his face, “is it the omen that makes you grow so sad? For the sun of your life is so seldom under clouds that when it is clouded at all, it seems as deep darkness.” He answered by pressing back her hair, “No, not the omen. I am not a slave to chance like that.
He can tell a very clear story. Likewise, Lampaxo and Archias must testify at the trial, also your slave Bias can tell many interesting things.” “Only if I consent to produce him.” “When did a master ever refuse to let his slave testify, if demanded, unless he wished to blast his own cause with the jury? No, makaire, you will not enjoy the day when Themistocles arrays the testimony against you.”
“Grow fast, makaire, grow strong, for there is work for you to do! Your father cries, ‘Avenge me well,’ even from Hades.” After the departure of the fleet Athens seemed silent as the grave. On the streets one met only slaves and graybeards.
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