The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. "Your son," answered the boy. "And so, you really suspected me?" murmured Mrs. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated.
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