She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. "She has flown up stairs," replied the widow. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight. " "I'll excuse it nevertheless," returned the little damsel, affectionately extending her hand to him. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here.
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