"By all means," rejoined Quilt. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Wood. None this end. Anna did not pause, but she looked over her shoulder with slightly lifted eyebrows. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said.
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