She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. He jumped back, cursing. ‘Prudence? This name I have heard it spoken. "Bravo!" shouted Blueskin. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. He pretended to be unaware of the mishap. Evidently he was gazing at the dull red roofs of the city: but was he registering what he saw? Never glance sideways at man, the old Kanaka woman had said. " "He'll be hanged nevertheless," replied the Hollander, giving his collar an ugly jerk. ’ She had given nothing away. At least, I hope so for his sake as well as my own," he added, mentally. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands.
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