The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a difficulty, “I’ve promised to go. ‘Then mayhap this will persuade you!’ With a scrape of steel, he drew his sword from its scabbard. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. Eh? Banging against the old rollers—that'll put some life into us both.
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