“Miserable bounder,” he murmured. I’ve thought that out, and you must make up your mind to it. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking.
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