She was chic, distinguished, unusual. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. Pain sliced into Gerald’s hand and his sword arm jerked.
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