The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. Was anything missed after the lad's departure, Sir Rowland?" "Not that I'm aware of," said the knight.
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