Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. " "Wait a bit, massa," replied the grinning negro,—"lilly bit—see all right fust.
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