The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. “Flesh and flowers are all alike to me. A few days ago I saw him leave your house. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. And then her pace slackened. “All these days I have taken her for you.
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