The vaqueros laughed. He waited until he felt sure she must be well away. It was good weather for a young man and young woman who had discovered the joys of physical love, you would have said, but Roland and Susan met only twice during the run of gray weather. But he only took off his hat and made her a charming little bow, and the wind died.
It had seemed like one at first—that sense of unreality had been another inducement to walk into the trap, she now understood—but it was no dream. Then, as he watched Roland dismount, they rolled themselves closed again, the nails digging into his palms. He would have to tell them—No, Roland, the voice whispered. Arthur Heath of Gilead has promised me yellow ones.
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