“It—it—must come,” she faltered. "A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm.
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