An ancient smile lay on his lips. "'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. ‘I escape from a fate entirely misérable, you understand. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped.
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