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"I am not asleep," she answered, turning her tear-stained face towards her friend.
As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they reached the upper lawn alone.
He clapped his hand to his eye and gave a hoarse scream of pain.
The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender of roads with awe.
