One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. It was fastened inside. Gerald’s task was to stop him from doing so. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second.
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