"Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. The face that looked down upon Ann Veronica was full of amiable intention. “I see the pointer,” she said. A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. It is not a dissipated face.
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