Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. I wonder. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. The fates are never so kind to me. “Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly.
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