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She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. But be very careful not to let him know. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. Twenty-one, twenty-two. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ enquired the captain at length, ‘that you have had the infernal audacity, the—the gall, the—the— Gad, it’s an outrage! You’ve stolen a horse from a priest?’ ‘I did not steal it,’ protested Melusine hotly.
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