From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks. She remained standing stiffly, unable even to move. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. ‘I can answer that.
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