A row of magnificent, and even then venerable, elms threw their broad arms over this pleasant spot. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. When she saw however that this man was a stranger, and obviously harmless, her expression changed as though by magic. Not enough of them to make a difference. I'll lay my life he's gone.
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