The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk. "The devil you have! Then, perhaps, you can tell me when he intends to put his threat into execution?" "What threat?" asked Jackson. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. You’ll need that. I shall find him yet. It was his turn to express astonishment.
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