It seemed to make her sister downcast beyond any precedent. "I shall want a bottle or two of sack, and a flask of usquebaugh. It had been her home for hundreds of years. There must be something we can do. She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window. "The plot's out!" cried Jack. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person.
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