His gaze remained steady on the old dame’s face, as he thought about it. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. The nuns, they were very good with a whip. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever.
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