Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. Up to this moment, hopes had been entertained of a respite, strong representations in his favour having been made in the highest quarter; but now that his fate seemed sealed, the curiosity of the sight-seeing public to behold him was redoubled. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. ‘I am perfectly devoted to him, as well he knows. I don’t want you to be sad.
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