The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. He then scaled the northern tower, and made his way to the summit of that part of the prison which fronted Giltspur Street. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired.
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