’ The couple on the sofa stared at her blankly. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. Our land brings us in nothing. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. ’ At that, a flush drenched her cheeks and she snatched her hand away. They had heard nothing, seen nothing. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland.
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