Then all the embarrassments of the matter flashed in upon her. Hope reared. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. He's nice. His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack.
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