"Fly, Captain—fly!" Aroused to a sense of the possibility of escape, Jack, who had viewed the deadly assault with savage satisfaction, burst from his captors and made for the door. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. ” For some seconds he had remained quite still. Better get a dress.
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