Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous complexion. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. “Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, and stared over her shoulder out of the window. “Odd!” she said. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting.
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