“And then?” said Ann Veronica. "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. She withdrew her mouth and patted his penis dry with the bottom of his shirttails. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. The ball passed over his head, and lodged in the ceiling. But I never found any truth in the saying.
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