Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. But he knew.
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