You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. But never mind that. "Take off these chains, Rowland," said Lady Trafford, "instantly, I command you. So was I, in fact. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. But I’m thinking as how I’d best report to the major over this here shooting.
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