“My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. He is extremely old—forty at least—and he has a belly excessively fat. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle,—the floor deluged with blood,—various articles of furniture upset,—papers scattered about,—the murdered man's cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore,—his hat, crushed and similarly stained,—his sword,—the ensanguined cloth,—with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed. He could not kiss Ruth.
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