Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact. "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. Now he would take her away from the house before killing her, and no one would find her body at all. ‘Do you swear it? There’s no knowing if one can believe you. I have been very foolish, but it is over.
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