The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. Lucy thought of herself as belonging to Sebastian whether she liked it or not. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. “Who, me? I scare you?” He asked.
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