"Farewell!" cried Jack, breaking from them, and rushing down the street. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Michelle ate fast, and Lucy followed her lead, shoveling mashed potatoes and salmon down her gullet in a passionless frenzy. The key is in my trousers. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. "The speedy union of Thames Darrell with Winifred Wood," replied Jack.
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