Jests are not for seasons like this. He impetuously grasped a hold of her hand, looking for a callous. “But your sister?” he asked. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. If you ride past the church, and mount the hill, you'll come to Neasdon and then you'll not have above half a mile to go. It is no crime, none at all.
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