At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. “She must go her own way. There are way-stations—even terminals.
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