Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. "Much that I would willingly forget. "Do you know anything further of Sir Rowland?" he asked. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. Fortunately, I've secured the proof of my birth. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows.
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