"Well," growled Blueskin, "you've had my offer. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. There was no one stirring in the flats. You called yourself a murderess. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look.
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