Sheppard let fall her basket. He got up. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. Thames Darrell MUST die. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly.
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