He's worth a dozen of you. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Having traced the footsteps to the wall, and perceiving no outlet, Blueskin elevated the lamp, and discovered marks of bloody fingers on the boards. But he had scarcely advanced a step, when he was felled to the ground by a blow from the powerful arm of Kneebone, who, instantly possessing himself of a pistol, levelled it at Jackson's head.
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