She often found herself absorbed by watching the tall grass undulate from the cave’s central doorway as solitary hunters prowled for buffalo and stag on the plain. "Shir Rowland Trenchard's affair— eh?" "That's it," rejoined Jonathan; "I expect him here every minute. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. He was caked with dried muck. Good night.
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