Her husband was prouder of her every day. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper.
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