"What say you to carrying her off, Captain?" suggested Blueskin. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet.
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