Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. " "You shall—you shall," answered Jack.
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