while we can,’ Kimble managed, and dragged himself onto his knees. Stay! I'll go myself. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. "Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence.
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