He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. “Number 13, please, cabman. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. “No. I am sure he would go with you. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. And thus he effected his escape from the New Prison.
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