For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the background. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. Through the gloom he distinctly perceived the dome of St. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap.
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