I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. Let us be gone. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. Brown. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. There's the paragraph. There was just a minute’s hesitation before they gave her a room. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall.
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