On approaching the couch, they found Sir Rowland senseless, and extended over the dead body of his unfortunate sister. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. ‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. As long as your son observes that precept I'll befriend him, but no longer.
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