"It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. Killed is too kind a word. Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. “Are we cool?” Michelle asked her. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree.
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