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... with the oven heat and shiverB of the disease had left me peevish, 'Jyst as you say, my child,’ he re* piled..., my child 1 think eur host awaits us; the trees are alive. To retreat how would mean a •warm of them... was .puckered with ap (py Pension I’-'i fear you are In error, my child,’ i i protested When Brother Feeney 1... began to bafaBteJn his clean, kevenslory tenor as our guards silently rose and left us. '•-'I say, old... sat with despairing head ensconced In my hands, 'i guess, my child, I've a touch of the fever. Hum