\" \"Okay. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked. Uttering a few inarticulate ejaculations,—for he was completely out of breath,— the fugitive placed a bundle in the arms of the carpenter, and, regardless of the consternation he excited in the breast of that personage, who was almost stupified with astonishment, he began to divest himself of a heavy horseman's cloak, which he threw over Wood's shoulder, and, drawing his sword, seemed to listen intently for the approach of his pursuers. “Sometimes it is not bad. She had tasted freedom now, and so far she had not felt the need of protection. And yet—I love you. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had.
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