"It's the skull of a rebel," said Jonathan, with marked emphasis on the word, "blown by the wind from a spike on the bridge above us. ‘And nor do I. “I wrote it for you. ’ ‘But, no,’ She dimpled. "How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. " The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. Roused by Ben's warning, the carpenter looked up and could just perceive the dusky outline of the bridge looming through the darkness, and rendered indistinctly visible by the many lights that twinkled from the windows of the lofty houses. "Dead!" echoed the boy.
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