‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. "It's all up, master," groaned Ben, "nothin' short of a merracle can save us. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. "What was it?" He was insistent. She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up.
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