Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. “You may not leave. It's plain he don't understand our lingo; as, how should he? Take pattern by me;" and as he said this he strode up to the carpenter, and, slapping him on the shoulder, propounded the following questions, accompanying each interrogation with a formidable contortion of countenance. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. We sha’n’t hang up on any misunderstanding. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart.
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