Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. I care not. “My dear sweet Lucia. I know my son's voice too well. I want to know more about her. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. Prison was beastly. "Only my darbies," returned Jack, clinking his chains. Are you sure you're not misinformed, Sir?" "I was in the Lodge at the time," replied the jailer.
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