CHAPTER III. I'm not hungry. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. In a very definite sense we are in the wrong —hopelessly in the wrong.
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