The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. "This tongue looks remarkably nice," he added, slicing off an immense wedge, "excuse me—ho! ho!" "You make yourself at home, I perceive," observed Kneebone, with a look of ineffable disgust. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again.
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