” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. I'll dispose of the brat. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman.
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