Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She tried not to blush. "Sit down, fool!" "Jack," said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, "are these regrets for your past life sincere?" "Suppose them so," rejoined Jack, "what then?" "Nothing—nothing," stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. You may well say it's impossible! His Majesty's jail of Newgate is admirably guarded, I must say.
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