"Begone! or I fire!" he cried. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable. "The poor young man!" sighed Angelina. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. Hoped you'd not be retaken. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. He walked unsteadily towards the door. It is useless to talk.
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