“Where am I?” he muttered. ” He shook his head, and threw open the door of a great dimly-lit apartment on the ground floor. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. That will be a fine day—it will have to be, when first you set eyes on Italy. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered.
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