"No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. " "That's well!" cried Jack. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation.
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