“I suppose all life is an affair of chances. He had chosen his time well. ‘Oh, peste. "Only the dog," replied the rough tones of a man. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. "Get in wid ye, ye villin!" And, despite his resistance, Shotbolt was thrust into the chair, which was instantly fastened upon him. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel.
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