Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. "Curse you! Where are the bailiffs? Rot you! have you lost your tongue? Devil seize you! you could bawl loud enough a moment ago!" "Silence, Blueskin!" interposed an authoritative voice, immediately behind the ruffian. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. She had found him! Excitement welled. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one.
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