If we were set upon I could not defend you. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Keep his arms down. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal.
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