Without an idea where he was going, Jack pursued his way through the fields; and, as he proceeded, the numbness of his limbs in some degree wore off, and his confidence returned. "Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. Besides—there is Sir John.
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