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"Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. Then she went back and mixed up the sheets in a search for particular passages. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. Anna, I listened to all that he had to say, and I called to him to let me get out.
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