“Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. His brain reeled. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable. “I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet.
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