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’ Fresh suspicion kindled in his breast. "I will swear it upon the cross!" "His name, then?" demanded the knight. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess.
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