They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. “I suppose you know I like you tremendously?” he pursued. ” “You may be sure of the one,” she murmured. . . One night she apparently fell asleep. The fire still burned brightly.
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