Jack had well-nigh fallen too. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. A shy virgin bride would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this clandestine little comedy he had been playing. It simply doesn’t count. Luckily, Mrs. Darting forward at this sound, Jack threw open the door, and beheld Quilt kneeling over Thames, who'se hands and feet were bound with cords, and about to plunge his sword into his breast. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction. Her long arms handled the sword with a memorized ease and grace. Her thick body was heavy and massive.
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