This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. I am too weak to aid you. At Anna’s words she seemed suddenly to stiffen. I knew where I would go next: Florence. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. Went up to Somerset House to examine the will before he did it. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. “In the end,” it seemed to be thinking, “they embalmed me with the utmost respect—sound spices chosen to endure—the best! I took my world as I found it.
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