"One of us has got to die," he panted. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. After great exertions on both parts, the spike yielded to their combined strength, and snapped suddenly off. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable. “I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely. But she was not to be tempted. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands.
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