"At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand. What were your findings?” Lucy asked. He awoke, strangely content. But she veiled her feelings. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. The fellow is little better than a lunatic.
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