“How dare you? You are trying to kidnap my babies!” Clotilde demanded. "Well, Jack," said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cutand-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; "how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. “Let’s go home. Do anything to please you, Vee. ” Her thoughts went into solution for a time, while she listened to a lark singing. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief.
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