" "Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard," answered Blueskin, sulkily. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. At once.
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