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“Again, Sir Randolph raised an eyebrow and looked at Jack in a particularly mocking way. It was an uncomfortable experience for the boy, for he was very proud of his truthfulness, and he never considered his exaggerations to be much of a diversion from the truth. Sir Randolph's doubt in his claims put a dampener on this particular kind of pride.”

“The man's face was round, but only at first sight, for a strong, sharp jaw was nearly hidden by a multitude of chins, his high cheekbones were hardly noticeable, they looked so round and ruddy, and the firm, resolute line of his mouth was concealed by full lips and the languid smile of a man who possessed great wealth and little happiness.”

“In a way, yes,’ said Jack and handed the peeled clementine over to the squire, then took another one for himself. ‘But some of us are wealthier than others – just look at your house and your valley, and your horses. And your wisdom.’ ‘My wisdom?’ ‘You know things.’ ‘And you? Don't you know things?’ ‘Yes,’ said Jack, sharply drawing in the air, ‘I know things. Everyone knows some things. But I wish you'd share some of your wisdom with me as graciously as your food.’ ‘Wisdom is not the same as knowing things, my boy, and I am not wise.”

“Before him stood a tall bay horse, a very fine hunter, and on it sat the man. He was as large as his voice and, thought Jack, a most peculiar sight: a picture of softened sharpness. He was middle-aged and of a rather fair, but rich colouring, with glinting eyes and ruddy cheeks. He wore colourful clothes, a beautiful embroidered waistcoat of gold and green and pink and red, beneath a riding coat of a familiar shade of green, and bright white breeches with polished black top boots that had lovely brown trim. But there was nothing cheery about these colours, they were strong and shone like metal. Just like a suit of armour, thought Jack.”

“And, oh! It was a beautiful evening, as heather-purple and gorse-gold as the moorland around them, and the sky above was that stark shade of blue that looked neither dark nor light enough to be true. If it were a painting, a critic might have said that the colours were all wrong. Jack, of course, knew better than that. He had spend many an evening out on the moor. And Meadowsweet – oh how she loved it.”