Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. The plank hung over his head. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. Leastways, not on your own. That can be very useful, that. The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms. Mild, you know, and boon. "Where is he?" he cried.
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