" "Yes, there was one," observed Ireton. He pulled down a chair to her left. He sprung out of the driver’s side and ran to her door. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Just as he had succeeded in fixing his attention, it was again shaken, and he was almost unnerved by the sight of Mr. Drink for him had a queer phase. As it is not, however, our intention to furnish a complete catalogue of these curiosities, we shall merely mention that in front of them lay a large and sharp knife, once the property of the public executioner, and used by him to dissever the limbs of those condemned to death for high-treason; together with an immense two-pronged flesh-fork, likewise employed by the same terrible functionary to plunge the quarters of his victims in the caldrons of boiling tar and oil. His glances were hard to disguise as he scanned her periodically during class.
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