It is so ridiculous. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. " "Ah!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, glancing significantly at Charcam, who was a confidant in his Jacobite schemes; "is it the messenger from Orchard-Windham, from Sir William?" "No, Sir Rowland. I’ve tried to use my authority. I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. Nicholas is dead.
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