"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. A shout was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head. Or, better still, put all my clothes in the trunk. " The tone was neutral. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered. ‘She wormed it out of me, the little fiend. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. He had this thing for his twin daughters. ‘And take you this sword.
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