Amid the confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack's head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the jailer's arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him, dragged him to the ground. All make the same answer—'d—n you, keep it. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. But he knew. His manner was deferential, even eager. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral.
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