All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. He’s waiting. The sergeant had not seen it for he understood nothing of what she told him. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat.
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