"Sir Rowland must be gone. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. She opened one and found herself in a large untidy room set with chairs that were a little disarranged as if by an overnight meeting. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth.
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