"My heart," rejoined Thames, firmly; "which now tells me I am in the presence of his murderer. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered.
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