"Ah! Terry O'Flaherty!" vociferated Jonathan, in a tone that betrayed hot the slightest discomposure. " Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across his brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly. And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot. There must be something we can do. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me.
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