She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. "Well, Sir?" gasped Sir Rowland. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments.
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