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In this unhappy condition of mind, then, I was lying in my library chair here at Sevenhays, at two o'clock on the morning of January 4th. I had just finished another reading of the Tenth Vision and had tossed my book into the lap of an armchair opposite. Fire and lamp were burning brightly. The night outside was still and soundless, with a touch of frost.
My dear boy, it isn't for us that you need worry." "For whom, then?" "Come," said he, and he shook Vivandiere into a canter. I cannot remember precisely at what point in our ride the country had ceased to be familiar. But by-and-by we were climbing the lower slopes of a great down which bore no resemblance to the pastoral country around Sevenhays.
And all these forms leaned forward and bowed their faces on their arms and wept. So we passed out beneath the archway. Grey Sultan stood outside, and as I mounted him the gate clashed behind. . . . I turned as it clashed. And the gate was just the lodge-gate of Sevenhays. And Grey Sultan was trampling the gravel of our own drive.
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