Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. In fact, one of them was downright sceptical. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. "He's a base, deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine—that's what he is.
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