She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. " "Indeed!" said Shotbolt. "Auntie?" he cried. ” Her eyes glinted, macabre. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. ” Lucy became livid with rage. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. Leave the rest to me.
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