The ruffian's companions took his part. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Forgive me?” She pleaded. If he hasn't a job for you, he'll know someone who has. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. “Fancy stabbing a man for jealousy!” she thought. " The Wastrel advanced. " CHAPTER XIX.
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