She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Heliers. I'll talk to her in the morning, but she won't understand what I'm driving at. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. The first of these, the Press Room, a dark close chamber, near Waterman's Hall, obtained its name from an immense wooden machine kept in it, with which such prisoners as refused to plead to their indictments were pressed to death—a species of inquisitorial torture not discontinued until so lately as the early part of the reign of George the Third, when it was abolished by an express statute. At the bottom of her heart she was not a bit afraid of Ramage. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. I know the Dutch. My people don’t know what to do.
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