"He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. " "I have heard sailors use words like that, but I never knew what they meant. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him. . Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. The others hurried to the window.
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