Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. She blew on the hand cannon and grabbed her bag of gunpowder. “I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. A question next arose whether the prisoner could be executed under the existing warrant,—some inclining to one opinion, some to another. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something.
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