"Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. They had been so considerate of the earth they had touched that they barely left a footprint. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. Fixing a ferocious and exulting look upon Jack Sheppard, he exclaimed.
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