Excerpt from Hilary St. Ives, Vol. 1 of 3: A Novel
One evening, at the latter end of April, a few years ago, just as it was becoming dusk, a young man, extremely well favoured and well proportioned, took his way on foot across an extensive heath in one of our southern counties.
Hilary St. Ives - for so was he named - might be about one or two and twenty. Rather dark, perhaps, but strikingly handsome.
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