"It's like enough, I dare say," rejoined Sheppard. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. “I love you, Ann Veronica. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. Just speak the word," he added, drawing the knife significantly across his throat, "and I'll put it out of his power to do the same by your second.
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