He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. “I want to make you happy, Lucy. The child was now within reach; and, in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm from behind had not felled him to the ground. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. But though he made Blueskin and Kettleby his chief marks, he missed both.
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