"Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. "I've waited supper, you perceive. I've a question to ask him. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her.
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