And if I don’t, I go mad. Burn your palette and your easel. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. "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.
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