" "Anything like that?" "Yes; but the colour is lavender. . She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. Nowhere could he see that reaching, menacing Hand. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. . .
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