"A sail?" said McClintock. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. Do you hear?" "I do, Sir," replied Austin respectfully. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song.
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