" "Who are you!" demanded the fugitive, sternly. He loved the sea, and could give a good account of himself in any weather. Jack, meanwhile, with Blueskin's assistance, had set the table once more upon its legs, and placing writing materials, which he took from a shelf, upon it, made Shotbolt, who was still gagged, but whose arms were for the moment unbound, sit down before them. The truth was impossible, indecent. Enschede: no human emotion should ever again shuttle between him and God. The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him.
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