They put her down, and she leaped at them; she smote a helmet to the ground. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. It was a tale of battle, murder, and sudden death on the New York waterfront. Warding off the blows as well as he could with the bar, Jack struck both the horses on the head, and the animals plunged so violently, that they not only prevented their riders from assailing him, but also kept off the hostlers; and, in the confusion that ensued, Jack managed to spring over the fence, and shaped his course across the field in the direction of Sir John Oldcastle's. " "I have no people—anybody who would care. He’s dead.
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