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Pale season, watcher in unvexed suspense, Still priestess of the patient middle day, Betwixt wild March's humored petulance And the warm wooing of green-kilted May. All day the rain had poured, a real March rain, descending in chill, driving torrents.
A couple of squadrons of Lancers had off-saddled by the roadside, a phalanx of horses topped with furled red and white pennons. Behind them stood a battery of artillery. Half a battalion of green-kilted Gordons sunned their bare knees a little lower down; a company or two of Manchesters back-boned the flabby convoy. The staff officer could not make out what in the world it meant.
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