"Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. Mind, when we were all growed up, it were different. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. Ann Veronica watched her face, vaguely sympathizing with her, vaguely disliking her physical insufficiency and her convulsive movements, and the fine eyebrows were knit with a faint perplexity. On his return to London, he found that applications had been made from a somewhat doubtful quarter by two individuals, for the posts of subordinate officers in his troop.
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