My death, probably. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. The man was dangerous. Now, he must have folks somewhere. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. He had a peculiar way of stepping in, in a parry; knew his arm, and its just time of moving; put a firm faith in that, and never let his opponent escape.
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