The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. Wild on his guard against an assassin. ” He said to her.
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