"He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. Hanging about! And they start thinking and asking questions, and begin to be neither one thing nor the other. Courtlaw opened his lips, but remained silent in the face of her imperative gesture. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it.
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