" "Not at fisticuffs, perhaps," interrupted Jack, fiercely; "but I've my knife. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. “Dear husband,” she murmured. I mean my cut-offs and boots. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out.
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