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"He is gone," muttered the crafty Albany, "and he must be my ally, yet feels himself disposed to be my mortal foe. No matter, Rothsay sleeps with his fathers, James may follow in time, and then a crown is the recompense of my perplexities." Thretty for thretty faucht in barreris, At Sanct Johnstoun on a day besyde the black freris. Palm Sunday now dawned.
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