’ ‘Of course you weren’t there,’ snapped Hilary. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. "Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—"too late!—oh!" Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room. He was staring at her, openly gaping. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs.
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