They had their little dreams about her. Meanwhile, the clergyman, bare-headed and in his surplice, advanced to meet them. “You promised faithfully to be there,” he said slowly. 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. She leaned forward and addressed him. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch.
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