He seemed to be thinking hard. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. Wasn’t easy, I can tell you. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. She was honest again. I was resolved to see you.
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