"Why didn't you come out when I called you, you young dog?" cried Quilt in a savage tone. Terror had laid a paralyzing hand upon her, fear kept her almost unconscious of the curious glances which she was continually attracting. “Well?” she said. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. Besides, there are greater rascals than Jack Sheppard at liberty, Sir Rowland. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. In this state, he was laid upon a bench, to sleep off his drunken fit, while his wretched mother, in spite of her passionate supplications and resistance, was, by Blueskin's command, forcibly ejected from the house, and driven out of the Mint. Once inside, he looked around, worried that his parents would suddenly cancel their trip and return home. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered.
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