When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. She shot a sudden glance at him. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. "Away with him!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, impatiently. Be seated, and calm yourself. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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