Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. "Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop. "It is your son. " "Pish!" cried Jack: "I don't value his anger a straw. " "'Zounds! Captain, I shall get my death of cold.
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