"Curse you! Where are the bailiffs? Rot you! have you lost your tongue? Devil seize you! you could bawl loud enough a moment ago!" "Silence, Blueskin!" interposed an authoritative voice, immediately behind the ruffian. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes.
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