She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. Members of the crowd looked over their shoulders and stared at her through the smoky haze. “Do you mean in looks?” she asked.
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