The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden. Poor young lady! She trembled too, and was unable to give her evidence.
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