‘Tell me, my boy. ” “But is that really so?” said Ann Veronica. ’ ‘Yes, well, I was too young to see it,’ the captain said, tying a knot in his makeshift bandage. "But your dreadful projects will recoil on your own head. “Men’s waists are neither here nor there; A man scores always, everywhere. Damn! I’ve splashed. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. And if he won’t—” But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that time. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. We close the chapter. "Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce, eh? You should have tipped me the wink.
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