Can you kill yourself?” He asked quietly. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. 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. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. He gave you a poison.
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