She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder. "It's not very likely that a babby of nine months old will save my life, if I'm to be his friend, as you seem to say, Mrs. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment.
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