She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. She felt sickeningly empty. ‘Parbleu, do you think he will run away? He has a bullet inside him, and it must be taken out. But, this sad affair disposed of, I will not rest till I have avenged my murdered parents. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. He grunted, and his grip gave. But for me it doesn’t matter.
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