By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. “They seem smaller, you know, even physically smaller,” she said. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. Splendidly. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. ‘There’s a surgeon on his way, and my men are under orders to do whatever is needful.
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