"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. —"Oh! about that boy, Thames Darrell. ” Her elation teetered in mid-air for a second, then began to flutter down around her like a badly-built house of cards. He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes. ‘Taken the girl with him. Perhaps I am still mad. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him.
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