"It's the skull of a rebel," said Jonathan, with marked emphasis on the word, "blown by the wind from a spike on the bridge above us. The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river. David Courtlaw. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor.
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