" Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin.
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