‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. I chose you for your strength, your cunning, your intelligence, your great beauty. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance. She described it so vividly.
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