She was asked to meet him after his game Saturday afternoon. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. 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. "Not so, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan; "you are my prisoner. “I am bored,” she said abruptly.
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