"Not that I know of," replied the carpenter, who had in some degree recovered his confidence. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. To her consternation, the sound drew her great-aunt’s attention and she threw out a hand. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help.
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