‘Nevertheless, you will marry me,’ he snarled. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. I have—run away. Blueskin drew the knife across his throat a second time, widening and deepening the wound; and wrenching back the head to get it into a more favourable position, would infallibly have severed it from the trunk, if the officers, who by this time had recovered from their terror, had not thrown themselves upon him, and withheld him.
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