The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. I only wish he was not a Papist and a Jacobite. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. It was Annabel’s. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe.
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