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" "You'd better take care of your mother's son instead," rejoined Blueskin. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. " Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. " As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold. Pain sliced into Gerald’s hand and his sword arm jerked. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth.
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