She did not think for one moment what interpretation he might put upon the word “lover. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. She reflected before answering. Jack Sheppard is now wholly in my hands.
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