He thrust out a rhetorical hand. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. The doctor's lessons, perhaps delivered with too much serious emphasis, had destroyed that buoyant confidence in her ability to take care of herself. Fixing a ferocious and exulting look upon Jack Sheppard, he exclaimed. "What the devil are you about! Will you allow yourself to be beaten by a couple of kids?" "Not if I can help it," returned Abraham, making a desperate effort to regain his feet. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. ‘Don’t be so absurd.
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