His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed. " "Stand off, Poll," rejoined the woollen-draper; "I don't want to hurt you. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. “I’d sooner condemn you to Hell. She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes.
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