He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. "Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. By a miracle, he averted its path, his hold on the girl’s mouth shifting fast to grasp her wrist. "You know not what you do. “He’s quite the inventor.
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