Creeping stealthily up stairs, unmasking a dark lantern, and glancing into each room as he passed, he was startled in one of them by the appearance of Mrs. You know—I worship you. I am sure. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue.
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