CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. Stanley. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. 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. "Sign this," he said, pushing the document towards Sir Rowland. "Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!" Winifred made no answer.
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