Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him. Particles of bullet were embedded in Rhea’s large arm as she swung across the stones in her donated legs. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily.
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