“Well?” she said. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. Conscience drove him to this side of the world, to this bed. "Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue.
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