"Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. “FAIL!” she said. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. His eyes were closed. “Where were you?” He inquired, rubbing her shoulders. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound.
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