She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. Crossing them, he ascended an eminence, which, from its singular shape, seems to have been the site of a Roman encampment, and which commands a magnificent prospect. His literary instincts were reviving. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself.
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