From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. When he faced Spurlock, the granite was cracked and rived; never had Spurlock seen such dumb agony in human eyes. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. The arrival of the cart at the end of Field Lane, appeared the signal for an attempt at rescue. .
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