"It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. John. She rapped again, louder. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. There were two of them. “Odd!” she said. "Yes, now," rejoined the infuriated dame; "perhaps, I may never have another opportunity. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat.
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