“I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. When she spoke, her lips twitched.
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