Having seen his mistress safe down, Jack instantly descended, leaving the best part of his clothes, as a memorial of his flight, to the jailor. He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room. “I think,” she said, “that I will tell you everything. In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. She glanced into his face. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains.
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