He brought home a few waverers to talk to them where they had no chance of getting away. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. Wood, carving for his friends, and pledging the carpenter, he had his hands full. You are just necessary to life for me.
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