He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. A question next arose whether the prisoner could be executed under the existing warrant,—some inclining to one opinion, some to another. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. He did not move. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. He would provide the necessities of life and protect her. Their doors stood open, and placards with big letters indicated the section assigned to each.
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