The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. “Just look that through, will you. From the slight sounds that had reached him in his place of confinement, he was aware that some persons had found their way to the scene of slaughter, and in a state of the most intense anxiety awaited the result of their investigation, prepared for the worst. They were both dressed in every respect alike. Kneebone?" "He'd better not," muttered Blueskin.
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