She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. ‘You see, it is that I am a female, and you all are men. But though he made Blueskin and Kettleby his chief marks, he missed both. She doesn’t like you because she says the Beck’s are not ‘our kind of people’ which is her code for them not being rich enough. You can test it out on us this Thanksgiving Sunday. How much Mary knew is a mystery. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. Here I am. ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid.
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