This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. On the cords being removed, he made a desperate spring at Wild, bore him to the ground, clutched at his throat, and would, infallibly, have strangled him, if the keepers had not all thrown themselves upon him, and by main force torn him off. But at the same time, I must say plainly that I think your presence here just now would be a great misfortune.
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