A struggle of the most terrific kind now ensued. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Trust you. To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. She became aware that at regular intervals a light flashed upon her face and a bodiless eye regarded her, and this, as the night wore on, became a torment. But you must tell her.
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