Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. The person caught hold of his arm, and, in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image.
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