He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. “Great!” Cathy squealed. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. But we must not anticipate the course of events.
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