Having no means of defence, Sir Rowland cleared the blood from his vision; and, turning to see whether there was any means of escape, he descried the open door behind him leading to the Well Hole, and instantly darted through it. ‘Sleeping like a baby, he is. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. She was an Egyptian, from the magical times. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis.
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