He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. "I do not see him. " He then closed the lantern, mounted without much difficulty upon the roof, and proceeded cautiously along the tiles. "Mine died while I was over here. ” “Too much character, and too little sentiment,” he answered.
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