Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile. ‘The cat’s foot, Hilary. Goodbye. " "My strength fails me," gasped the fugitive.
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