" He smiled at her as he smiled at death, cheerfully. She had killed him. ’ ‘Aye, but she don’t reckon to militiamen. . For a time Spurlock did not move. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully.
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