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Updated: August 27, 2024
L-Lord! yer don't h-have ter be s-s-so blame good ter be u-up ter my level. Th-they don't b-breed no a-angels back in ol' M-Missouri, whar I come from. It's m-mostly mules thar, an' I r-reckon we all g-git a bit mulish an' ornery. B-but I 'spect I 'm d-decent 'nough ter know the r-right sort o' girl when I s-stack up agin her. So I don't w-want ter hear no m-more 'bout yer not b-bein' good.
'Time to wake u-up. She opened her hands and her eyes, as if seeing for the first time. She opened her eyes. The razor stood before her. Not as some dark and frightening intangible, but a stark physical reality, held in the iron grip of her fellow man. Because malicious evil is still only a weapon, and requires willing human hands to wield it.
Trembling with fatigue and deep-hidden emotion, Leah at length stood at the door of Dr. Heartwell's house, awaiting the answer of the porter. The door opened. "M-m-miss L-l-lizzie s-s-says c-c-come right u-up stairs, M-m-iss M-m-ordecai," stuttered out the polished black Hannibal who attended the door, known throughout the large circle of Dr.
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