The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. He went to the door. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. I must go somewhere into hiding, a long, long way off. Then there was also the horse. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. Her aunt went off at a tangent. Master, your humble servant. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. They will find me dead, yes. ‘Here we go again. No sooner had Trenchard crossed the threshold than a fierce barking was heard at the farther extremity of the passage, and, the next moment, a couple of mastiffs of the largest size rushed furiously towards him.
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