“Good-bye,” he said earnestly. 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. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. “I am going to America. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents.
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