207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. And how comes his cloak on this knave's shoulders?" "It is his cloak, of a surety," returned Rowland "Harkye, sirrah," continued he, haughtily interrogating Wood; "where is the person from whom you received this mantle?" "Throttling a man isn't the way to make him answer questions," replied the carpenter, doggedly. He sent me flowers. The man’s statement was explicit, and spoken with confidence.
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