But it's the last.

Understand that?
This time the Bench shall deal with you." The man was silent for a moment.

Then suddenly he burst out: "Look here, sir, pass it over this time.

My missus is ill.

She's mortal bad, God's truth she is, and haven't eaten nothing this three days past.
An' I thought mebbe a bit o' stewed rabbit 'ud tempt 'er." "Pshaw!" Trent was beginning contemptuously, when Sara leaned forward, peering into the poacher's face.
"Why," she exclaimed.