There is a small yewtree west of the church. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in Saint Giles's round-house. I need a white man, if only to talk to; and it will be a god send to talk to someone of your intelligence.
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