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"Where the dickens are my pants?" he whispered. "See anythin' of 'em, Bill?" "Nothing more since the privateersman was run in," said Captain Acton. But this sort of argument did not fall within the frame of Mr Greyquill's picture of integrity. It was a letter lying ready for anybody's hand in a public way; next, it was not addressed; third, it was not signed; and fourth, though the contents were apparently in Mr Lawrence's handwriting, yet some people did write, as Greyquill knew, so wonderfully alike that there was no reason to conclude without strong internal evidence that the letter Mr Greyquill held was written by Mr Lawrence. Whatever else it was, it was certainly a draft roughly pencilled of a letter that had been copied in ink and no doubt despatched. Here and there was an erasure in ink, which proved that it had been copied in ink and corrected in certain places by the pen that was transcribing it. He had not proceeded far when his eyebrows, which, as we have heard, inimitably expressed the aspect of two white mice, arched their backs to an extraordinary degree as though in imitation of a cat when enraged; his mouth took on the posture of a whistle; with his eyes rooted to[Pg 140] the sheet he stopped and scratched his head until he nearly tumbled his hat into the road..
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Conrad
"No," said Hinter, startled at the directness of look and question. "I don't know." "I saw Mr Lawrence on several occasions yesterday," exclaimed Captain Acton, "and he did not suggest by a syllable that he was making ready to sail early this morning before the various officials he would have to see were aboard." "Pray, what is your ship, sir?" asked Captain Acton. "Me jug," whispered Harry. "Where is that divil's halter av a jug, Billy?".
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