Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. "Now's your time," cried Blueskin, struggling desperately with his assailants and inflicting severe cuts with his knife. He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed.
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