When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. "It was given me by poor dear Mrs.
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