Trodger laid down their muskets and turned on them. “Mid-thirties. ” He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronica reading this last sentence. At every step he seemed to be haunted by the ghost of the past. Catching hold of his chin, he bent back the neck, while with his left hand he pulled out a clasp knife, which he opened with his teeth, and grasping Wild's head with his arm, notwithstanding his resistance, cut deeply into his throat. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how.
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