The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. From McClintock's came an infernal tinkletinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. As Jack appeared to be sinking fast, his fetters were removed, his own clothes were returned to him, and he was allowed a mattress and a scanty supply of bed-linen. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape.
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