Martin’s eyes seemed about to pop out of his head. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. As the day wore on, the crowds diminished,—many who would not submit to the turnkey's demands were sent away ungratified,—and at five o'clock, only two strangers, Mr. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end.
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