It was Blueskin. It is no good going into that. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. " "What am I to do to earn it?" asked Blueskin, with a disgusting leer,—"cut a throat—or throw myself at your feet—eh, my dear?" "Give me that child," returned the lady, with difficulty overcoming the loathing inspired by the ruffian's familiarity. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone.
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