‘What mischief?’ ‘I don’t know, but I’ll go bail you’re at something. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. Pah! What a pig is this générale.
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