Charley Pevenill was our host. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. "No, Sir Rowland," replied the attendant, "as you proposed to ride to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision.
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