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“Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. As matters now stand, I'm only a thief, not a blackguard. But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. ‘You cannot be always with me. ” She said. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone.
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