She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. But her temper almost flared again when the sergeant spoke. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year.
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