“YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. They came teeming distressfully through her aching brain: “A man can kick, his skirts don’t tear; A man scores always, everywhere. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. Don’t try. He could scarcely blame her. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. Hark ye, Blueskin," continued he, addressing that personage, who, in obedience to his commands, had, with great promptitude, driven out the rabble, and again secured the door, "a word in your ear. You would suffer the torments of the damned for what you had done. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. I have a weapon—a knife—and if you attempt to open the door, will plunge it to my heart.
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