He looked melancholy enough, it is true. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. In the hall below she could hear his firm voice giving quick commands to the servants. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors.
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