Observe it—a blue-serge coat. He bent over to Anna at once. “Looks like old times here, I see. "Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately.
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