He pulled away. “How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. Most of the vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs.
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