" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. On the cords being removed, he made a desperate spring at Wild, bore him to the ground, clutched at his throat, and would, infallibly, have strangled him, if the keepers had not all thrown themselves upon him, and by main force torn him off. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. He was in a curious state of desperation. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. ‘I escape from a fate entirely misérable, you understand.
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