"There he is!" cried Winifred, starting up, joyfully, and proving by the exclamation that her thoughts were dwelling upon one subject only. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. I must bless him before I die. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Every gibbet at Tyburn and Hounslow appeared to have been plundered of its charnel spoil to enrich the adjoining cabinet, so well was it stored with skulls and bones, all purporting to be the relics of highwaymen famous in their day.
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