She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. Primarily it was her own problem, and in particular the answer she had to give to Mr. "Get in wid ye, ye villin!" And, despite his resistance, Shotbolt was thrust into the chair, which was instantly fastened upon him.
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