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I’m not discussing Shakespeare. The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. Anything else that was said she now regarded only as an aspect of or diversion from that. She passed inside and upstairs without a word.
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