My death, probably. “Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers. Then we find out. I’ve been waiting all my life to get out of this town. So I've grown hard—outside. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager if I lost; and I should like to be as good as my word. .
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