She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. "Is your father alive?" "No," returned Thames; "he was assassinated while I was an infant. And he departed, just as Wood, who had become alarmed by Thames's long absence, made his appearance with a blunderbuss in his hand. There was nothing to be learned from her face. "Good work. You do not make me afraid like this. ’ ‘Well, don’t blame me if you get your head blown off.
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