"Well, how goes it?" he asked. Amid the confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack's head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the jailer's arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him, dragged him to the ground. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily.
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