She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. " "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. This is not true at all. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. " "That's well!" cried Jack. " "Impossible!" cried Jonathan. You’re all such good cooks. I saw him ride away with that other fellow.
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