" "You've been misinformed, Sir," interposed Smith. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. ’ ‘He does not call himself my father, for he calls himself nothing at all,’ Melusine told him, her tone violent with fury. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained.
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