Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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