"Ay. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. " "Iss, Massa Ireton," replied the black.
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