" Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. “Why do you kill me?” Michelle asked. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. But those days are over—quite over. The man pulled up.
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