On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. You called yourself a murderess. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. " "Ah!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, glancing significantly at Charcam, who was a confidant in his Jacobite schemes; "is it the messenger from Orchard-Windham, from Sir William?" "No, Sir Rowland. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. ‘There are no Remenhams left. " "What for? What do you want of them?" "Why, they are … yours.
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