I have some store of yellow metal, and spend my days in ridding myself of it,--a feat which you have accomplished.

A goodly number of acres is also counted unto me, but in the end my holding and your holding will measure the same.

I walk a level road; you have met with your precipice, and, bruised by the fall, you move along stony ways; but through the same gateway we go at last.

Fate, not I, put you here.

Why should you hate me who am of your order ?" MacLean left the table, and twice walked the length of the room, slowly and with knitted brows.