Wull, Sir, 't was a poor swile, wi' blood runnun all under; an' I got my cuffs an' sleeves all red wi' it. So I smoothed away the snow wi' my cuffs, an' I sid 't was a poor thing wi' her whelp close by her, an' her tongue out, as ef she'd a-died fondlun an' lickun it; an' a great puddle o' blood, it looked tarrible heartless, when I was so nigh to death, an' was n' hungry.
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