Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. I thought then perhaps you didn’t care, that you were like so many of them. He pulled rein at the sight of her, saluted, and regarded her with his rather too protuberant eyes.
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