Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. ‘Oh, ah. "To him I owe everything," continued the widow, "life itself—nay, more than life,—for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul. "Here's the door. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him.
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