They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. “We suspect that Mary is alive, and we think she will try to contact you if she ever tracks you down. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination.
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