Rory, pale and trembling, sat on a box in the corner where the tragedy had occurred. A rug had been thrown over the body of Rhea; the child had gone to sleep; Wonnaminta was searching for the passage into the Glen; and Lydia reclined on the bed, crying.
"The fat's in the fire now, Lydia, so you may as well make a clean breast of it," Rory urged. "Tell me all--from the time of the Ralstons-- the tunnel--everything. It's no good being a mystery any longer."
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