What his head conceived his hand executed. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. Listen.
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