"As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. A. At last he could bear it no longer. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey.
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