" "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. We’ll run away together, we’ll elope. “You are of the genus obstinate,” he said. Disperse in every direction.
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