One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. He had almost forced himself upon her one night after a particularly bloody raid of a thatched cottage. The boy was bright and inquisitive as he was subtle. Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander. "Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know.
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