His tone changed, becoming a little more moderate. "Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters.
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