On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own. Spurlock slept on. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. To find the incentive! But how? Thither and yon the idea roved, seeking the way. I want you to be my wife. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman.
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