There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors.
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