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He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose. That was the inconvenience of it; her head was swimming. Cursed him for his devotion that had made him come back for her, only to get himself shot by the fiendish Gosse. " "Iss, Massa Ireton," replied the black.
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