Twenty-one, twenty-two. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. "I've done no more than my duty, Mrs. Rhea’s head exploded into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. Warding off the blows as well as he could with the bar, Jack struck both the horses on the head, and the animals plunged so violently, that they not only prevented their riders from assailing him, but also kept off the hostlers; and, in the confusion that ensued, Jack managed to spring over the fence, and shaped his course across the field in the direction of Sir John Oldcastle's. ‘And that object confirms me in the belief that it is not I who will shortly meet my maker.
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