As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. I told her it was the end. Again the chalky pallor spread even to her lips, her eyes became lit with the old terror.
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