Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. I haven't much money; I don't know how much it is going to cost me to reach Hartford; so I fixed over a couple of my mother's dresses. But, you see, I’m smirched. .
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