The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. " Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them. “Let’s go in here. ‘She won’t. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. ” Inwardly, she laughed at the idea of him trying to beat on her, flailing, his arms akimbo.
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