Taking hold of the hilt of his own foil, he drew it forth. A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. . Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. “Here’s something rather good,” he said, and with a start and an effort she took his place at the microscope, while he stood beside her and almost leaning over her. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then.
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