Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. "I have him!" cried a voice in triumph. " "Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard," answered Blueskin, sulkily. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. She looked at him gravely and squinted.
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