Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. There ends my duty. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. It filled her with indefinable fear. "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.
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