The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. This left Spurlock alone. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. Here, without a glimpse of daylight; visited by no one except Austin at stated intervals, who neither answered a question nor addressed a word to him; fed upon the worst diet, literally mouldy bread and ditch-water; surrounded by stone walls; with a flagged floor for his pillow, and without so much as a blanket to protect him from the death-like cold that pierced his frame,—Jack's stout heart was subdued, and he fell into the deepest dejection, ardently longing for the time when even a violent death should terminate his sufferings. Blueskin, you are a true friend.
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