Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. ‘What do you think?’ ‘What do I think?’ repeated Captain Roding. ‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know.
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