But at least it gave her more time. He turned, expecting to see his wife. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. "Leave him to me," he said. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears.
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