Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. He stood back, smiling with an air of proprietorship, and looking about him at the business-like equipment of the room. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle,—the floor deluged with blood,—various articles of furniture upset,—papers scattered about,—the murdered man's cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore,—his hat, crushed and similarly stained,—his sword,—the ensanguined cloth,—with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed. \"Those look heavy. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. Gerald at once lowered his voice to that intimate level again, and leaned towards her.
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