The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. "Then you'll never know more than this," retorted Blueskin, with a grin of satisfaction;—"they're in a place of safety, where you'll never find 'em, but where somebody else will, and that before long. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it.
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