‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. "Yes, my angel, to her—rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it. "Very well, Mr. ‘There’s a surgeon on his way, and my men are under orders to do whatever is needful.
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