She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. "Well, well; look who's here!" cried Spurlock. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. 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. Above the housetops it was different. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice.
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