By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. She could not say who, not yet. You'll live to hate chicken; and the man in you will rise up and demand strong drink. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own.
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