You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. "Sir Rowland is your uncle—he will be your guardian—he will protect you. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. Prepared as he was for a dreadful shock, and with his nerves strung to endure it, Jack absolutely recoiled before the appalling object that met his gaze. Anything. Before any assistance could be rendered by the jailers, who stood astounded, Blueskin had got Wild in his clutches. He had hurt her.
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