"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. The afternoon had passed now into twilight. " A prophecy which was to be fulfilled in a singular way. " "Oh! let me die," groaned the widow.
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