“You poor little girl!” he cried. Gay," he added, turning to the poet. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so. ” “Then I didn’t waste my time in prison altogether?” “It wasn’t the prison impressed me. " At this allusion to his leader, a shudder passed through Blueskin's athletic frame.
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