"There is something to be said; I'm going to relieve my mind." He went off and signaled the farmers to stop.

They waited, standing quietly by their horses.

On the open moor, their powerful figures had a touch of grace, and their clothes, faded by sun and rain, harmonized with the color of the heath.

Peter Askew's brown face was inscrutable when he fixed his steady eyes on Osborn.
"You turned back the grouse and spoiled the beat.

Do you call that sporting ?" Osborn asked.
"I'm sorry," Peter replied.