Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided. He had just arrived from Manchester, whence he had been summoned by that treacherous thief-taker. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle,—the floor deluged with blood,—various articles of furniture upset,—papers scattered about,—the murdered man's cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore,—his hat, crushed and similarly stained,—his sword,—the ensanguined cloth,—with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed. She pulled the door so that it was not quite to, and held out her hand, palm up. “You don’t waste any time. “Listen,” she said. Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks.
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