She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment.
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