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The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. “And then they are swollen up and inflamed and drunken with matter. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders.
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