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207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. ‘Let go!’ ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Gerald demanded. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. “She has refused to listen to you?” “She has behaved in a most extraordinary manner,” he answered. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. ‘We may have to,’ Gerald answered thoughtfully, staring at the window to one side. You’re not to go.
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