‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. He had heard this talk before. Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. "How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence.
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