Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. Not at all. "There!" she cried, laughing, "that'll teach you to lay hands upon me again. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. Her voice was weak and flat.
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