"Wretch!" she cried, "you shall not force me to your hateful purpose. Blueskin drew the knife across his throat a second time, widening and deepening the wound; and wrenching back the head to get it into a more favourable position, would infallibly have severed it from the trunk, if the officers, who by this time had recovered from their terror, had not thrown themselves upon him, and withheld him. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before. The room was intimate and wonderful to her with its shadows now cast over the girlish menagerie of stuffed animals.
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