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Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword. “But your sister,” he said. Here and there, a building might be seen with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard.
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