It was a capital diversion; and as usual the Leatherneck bested the Britisher, in seven rounds. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like,’ he repeated blankly.
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