But he was so feeble, that it seemed scarcely possible he could offer any effectual resistance in case of an attack. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. "You'll be as good as your word, my charmer," whispered the executioner. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle.
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