"Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. "What the devil are you about! Will you allow yourself to be beaten by a couple of kids?" "Not if I can help it," returned Abraham, making a desperate effort to regain his feet. She had not even endorsed it.
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