"Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. "Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery," cried the Jew. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. “There have been other times,” he said a little sadly. Gerald’s gaze bored into hers. Grudgingly he admired her. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours.
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