Mr. ’ ‘The horse?’ echoed Melusine. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. He was well mounted, as was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. Yet she held her tongue. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford.
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