A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. And you will. I won't keep you long. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands. Kneebone's door, you begged me to await your return here, assuring me you would not detain me five minutes. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. He savored the last solo, the coda. She looked at her for a moment fixedly.
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