"Done!" cried Shotbolt. Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. “May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention.
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