The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. So far as regards his attire, Baptist was not seen to advantage. The door closed softly upon her. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. But she had found it very difficult. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing.
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