Still, there certainly was something in the idea of a treaty. There was Major Price—you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,—he stumbled as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. She had but to choose. Then, presto! What a dreary lot they are when the revellers lay aside the motley! Ruth had come from a far South Sea isle.
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