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I found him lying like this, the bleeding partly stopped by this scarf, else he had been dead by now. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. "By all means," returned Wood; "don't delay an instant. I hope that you did not permit her to feed?” “But I did! I did!” She sobbed. "Now, give me the woollen cloth to tie round my fetters," whispered Sheppard. His natal burr was always in evidence when he was sentimentally affected. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end.
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