Charley Pevenill was our host. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. The gentleman catched him i' th' fact, and we shut him up for safety i' that pris'n. He waved to her. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do.
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