CHAPTER VIII. The manager tells me that you are an American. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears. ‘Now you see why it is I no longer require the proof of which I have spoken. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. And yet he knew clearly and definitely what he purposed to do, what the future would be. Are you doing okay in that shirt? You seem uncomfortable. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest.
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