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But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. "Flight is still left me," replied Trenchard. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. The boy was right. ’ He thought a wary look came into her face, but it was difficult to be sure. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. ‘Why, you have heard yourself all that is being said. "What a wonderful colour!" she exclaimed. "Call me Hoddy.
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