“You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold. 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. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. But it sounds too real to be imagined.
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