“What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. She gulped for air merely, for it had been difficult to breathe with his hand almost cutting off the supply to her lungs. "But, let that pass. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts.
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