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Before Nandy knew whether he stood on his heels or his head one of these gentlemen had gripped him by the collar, and was requiring him to say instanter what the devil he meant by it. "Why, damme," shouted someone, "if 'tisn't the uniform of the Thirty-second! Here! Shilston! Appleshaw!" "What's wrong?" "The fellow belongs to yours." "The deuce he does! Slew him round and show his face."
Nandy checked his tears but not his sobs and pointed. "Down by the foreshore, sir . . . not a quarter of an hour since . . . he took the way up the Lynher, towards St. Germans . . ." "Here, Appleshaw, this is serious! Trehane, Drury you'll help us? A man of ours, deserted. . . . You'll excuse us, ladies we'll bring the fellow back to you if we catch him.
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