CHAPTER XVII. They were those of the Irish watchman. By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. The clock struck half-past ten. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. " "Here he is!" cried Ireton, as the knocking was heard without.
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