" "Mine is Howard Spurlock. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. He saw the tragedy on the boy's face; but he was merciless. ” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "Aha! my lad!" he cried without appearing to regard the pain of the wound; "now I'll show you no quarter. There was—a service. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. ‘The wretch said nothing to anyone.
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