"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. CHAPTER XIX. " "Man, in God's name, come with me and tell her this!" urged Spurlock. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. They were sounding more and more like Civic every day. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not.
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