Excited by the scene, Jack, however, could pay little attention to the good man's discourse, and was lost in a whirl of tumultuous emotions. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. ‘C’est ridicule. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution.
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