M. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. In the subdued light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. “You promised faithfully to be there,” he said slowly. She has been a dear.
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