A dreamy sense of content crept over him. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. . I would not have him know—now—for the world. "Let me go first," said Blueskin; "the dogs know me. Stanley, at the door. Wood!" "Leave go!" thundered Blueskin—"leave go—you'd better!"—and he held the sack as firmly as he could with one hand, while with the other he searched for his knife.
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