The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. As to this little fellow, in spite of the Dutchman, who, in my opinion, is more of a Jacobite than a conjurer, and more of a knave than either, he shall never mount a horse foaled by an acorn, if I can help it. A swift frown brought the still dark brows together for a moment. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred.
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