"He is," returned Quilt, significantly. The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. He may die. . She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. Get the men back to their posts.
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