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Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. "Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. It was a different world. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense.
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