He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. During this movement, Jack grasped the barrel of his pistol, held in his breath, and motioned to Blueskin, who bared a long knife, to keep still. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. He dropped the key on the counterpane. “Don’t come nearer!” she said.
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