A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. ‘You cannot be always with me. Plote was sleeping or deaf. Here, Peter," he added to a curly-headed lad, who was playing on one of the grassy tombs, "ask your father to step this way. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. ’ The lady’s face came round, a puzzled frown on her brow.
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