“Why not?” he exclaimed. Not if I read her aright. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. You’d think he wanted to meet the wretch again. He continued his ditty, in spite of the angry glances of his leader. ‘And it is perhaps not so necessary that I do so, because Joan has told me of another who may like to say I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. There was only one prisoner in the ward.
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