"Are you hurt, Thames?" asked Jack, anxiously. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. As soon as Jack gained his legs, he perceived Blueskin lying, as he thought, dead in the plantation, with a severe cut across his temples, and while he was stooping to assist him, he heard groans at a little distance. Their conversation hung. This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not.
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