Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant. “Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. 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. Only in her eyes there seemed to be some apprehension of the fact that the young man’s clothes and manners were alike undesirable things.
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