" "Not at fisticuffs, perhaps," interrupted Jack, fiercely; "but I've my knife. You don’t understand the fix I am in. ‘I’m a soldier, missie. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. She helped herself to the remainder of the slightly congealed bacon, and reverted to the problem of getting her luggage out of the house. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. "A hell of a muddle! But all the talk in the world can't undo it. “Hey sis!” He cried drunkenly.
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