Wood chanced to be murdered by Blueskin, the fellow who just left the room, on the very night of his return, as it has thrown the house into such confusion, and so distracted them, that he has had no time as yet for hostile movements. Capes—the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America. On a sudden, a change came over her countenance, which, up to this moment, had worn a smiling and satisfied expression. Wood, who had been absent on business during the greater part of the day, returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier hour than was expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane; and was about to enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of labour issue from within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of whose habits of industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting his employment. Then she slowly straightened, releasing him. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death.
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