For the love of Heaven, Jack, don't move!—Don't alter a muscle, if you can help it. ’ The dagger was in her hand. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. ‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done.
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