He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. As Jack appeared to be sinking fast, his fetters were removed, his own clothes were returned to him, and he was allowed a mattress and a scanty supply of bed-linen. Any one very badly moved choked down a few mouthfuls; the symptom of supreme distress was not to be able to touch a bit. The child was now within reach; and, in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm from behind had not felled him to the ground. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner.
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