"The natives have foolish ways of saying things. No doubt he has been drinking for days without eating substantially, and his heart gave out. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. I wish they would just get it over with. ’ You used to declare that you hated the name. To be sure," he added, lowering his tone, "they wos little 'uns, and one on 'em was smothered—ough! ough!—how this cough chokes me!" Sheppard, meanwhile, whose hands were at liberty, managed to possess himself, unperceived, of the spike of a halbert, which was lying, apart from the pole, upon a bench near him. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. Oh! Jack, Jack, you've much to answer for!" "I have, indeed," replied Sheppard, in a tone of contrition.
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