He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. He drew her closer. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. Brendon. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped.
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