"Raise your vice, and lave off coughin'," added Terence. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. Coming from the gloom of the passage, even the corridors seemed sufficiently illuminated for them to see their way. ‘The wretch said nothing to anyone.
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