Daughters were not like sons. But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. ” Lucy said with concern.
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