The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. The room was dark and dusty. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. She assumed with a kind of mesmeric force all the propositions that Ann Veronica wanted her to define. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE.
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