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Updated: May 29, 2025
It was horrible, Nan, just getting a few words over the 'phone twice a day to say how you were. I had to see for myself." His eyes sought her throat where the lash of the hunting-crop had wealed it. The mark had almost disappeared. With a sudden, passionate movement he caught her in his arms and pressed his lips against the faint scar. "Nan!" he said hoarsely. "Nan, say 'yes'! Say it quickly!"
He bound up the deep slash in his shoulder with a strip of cloth torn from his cloak, felt his wealed cheek tenderly, then flung the cloak about him again and drew down his broad-brimmed hat as he turned to his weary horse. "Well, my friend," and his voice sounded whimsical for all its rich tone, "you've had a change of masters to-day, eh?
Except that he was black as a coal, save for the whites of his eyes and his gleaming teeth, he seemed a grotesque understudy of the stockman moleskins, not too clean and rubbed and frayed in places, fastened up with a strap; faded Crimean shirt exposing a wealed and tattooed breast; old felt hat not a cabbage tree with a pipe stuck in its greasy band; an ancient red silk handkerchief with ragged edges, where whip crackers had been torn off, round his neck, and a short axe slipped among a few old pouches into the strap at his waist.
Indeed, he had; and was tossing his wealed body, full of pains, and aches, and bruises, as softly as he could upon the feather-bed: he had need of poultices all over, and a quart of Friar's Balsam would have done him little good: after his well-merited thrashing, the flogged hound had slunk to his kennel, and locked himself sullenly in, without even speaking to his mother.
Indeed, he had; and was tossing his wealed body, full of pains, and aches, and bruises, as softly as he could upon the feather-bed: he had need of poultices all over, and a quart of Friar's Balsam would have done him little good: after his well-merited thrashing, the flogged hound had slunk to his kennel, and locked himself sullenly in, without even speaking to his mother.
Teodoro, he finds Señor Juanito’s purse in the road, he follows to give it back. He is not a bandido—he is not espía, a spy one. We are mustangers. Ask of Don Reese, of Señor Kells. Why, Señor Juanito, do you say Teodoro spy on you, why you hit him with the whip?" "Not thief, not spy!" The boy beside Drew dropped a wealed hand from his face.
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