So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. The thought of Capes flooded her being like long-veiled sunlight breaking again through clouds. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth.
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