" "Traitor!" cried Sir Rowland—"damned—double-dyed traitor!" "Away with him," vociferated Jonathan to his myrmidons, who, having surrounded Trenchard, hurried him off to the coach before he could utter another word,—"first to Mr. “It’s his birthday. " The feminine vanities in Ruth were quiescent; nothing had ever occurred in her life to tingle them into action.
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