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What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. "How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. He seemed to do ten things before she could think to do one, to leap upon her and take possession. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. He waited. Ramage.
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