Jack now carefully closed the shutters, while Blueskin struck a light, with which he set fire to a candle. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. "Married!—no—no," replied the woollen-draper. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it.
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