The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. " "Better she die by her own hand, than by that monster's," cried Jack, brandishing the bar. " "We shall have a durty night on it, to a sartinty, landlord," observed an old oneeyed sailor, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire-side. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. We made sure it was just like Gwen. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely.
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