"Well, Jack," said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cutand-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; "how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. " "Are you ready?" said Trenchard, striding towards the door. He had not noticed the girl particularly when she offered the sandwiches; but in this moment he found her beautiful. But he knew.
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