The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance. " "I can't. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone.
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