But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe. Wood!" "Leave go!" thundered Blueskin—"leave go—you'd better!"—and he held the sack as firmly as he could with one hand, while with the other he searched for his knife. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again.
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