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“It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. She threw her arms around Rollo's neck and laid her cheek upon the flea-bitten head. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. He described her privately to himself as a splendid girl.
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