The gentleman with the red beard will relieve you of your prisoner. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. Sir John stood upon the threshold. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. Luckily I’m not. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill.
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