People who would not go. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. "It's Mrs. Rank ingratitude, I call it. ‘What Gerald wants with you has me beat. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. . . Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge. Such of his features as were visible were of coarse mould. He never finished his sentence.
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