The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. “You see the pointer?” he asked. The blood will rest on your head. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. Wanton! Had I been one, even God would have forgiven me, understanding. I’ve told you that practically already.
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