This is a mere boy. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. He was a philosopher. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. ‘Do you think I am afraid of a sword in the hand of a slip of a girl?’ For answer, Melusine lunged at him. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. You'll find the benefit of it by and by.
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