Anyhow, they didn’t run about so much. They left the castle that day for another, packing with them the leftovers of the troupe that followed them from place to place, never asking about the occasional disappearance of one of its unlucky members. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. . . Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other.
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