He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Burn your palette and your easel. Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. This was in Tennessee. “I will not intrude upon you further.
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