His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. "You don't eat," continued Kneebone, addressing Jack, who had remained for some time thoughtful, and pre-occupied with his head upon his hand. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. Give him his medicine every half hour. It's two hundred pounds. No, I thank you.
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