"And now, widow," continued the ruffian, setting down the candle, and applying his lips to the bottle neck as he flung his heavy frame upon a bench, "I've a piece o' good news for you. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. "You forget that you promised me a kiss the last time you were here. When I carried you up here like a bride, that is the way I wanted us to be, Mary Lucia. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging.
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