Until at last I persuaded him to go to bed. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. He had need of all the inexhaustible energy of his character to support him through his toilsome walk over the wet grass, or along the slippery ploughed land. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. "On Friday," he replied.
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