He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. "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. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. The day was sunny and pleasant, devoid of chill winds.
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