"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. Marry, come up! I'll show him what an injured wife can do. "By all means," returned Wood; "don't delay an instant. “Who can tell?” she said. “It’s something that bothers me.
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