Blueskin drew the knife across his throat a second time, widening and deepening the wound; and wrenching back the head to get it into a more favourable position, would infallibly have severed it from the trunk, if the officers, who by this time had recovered from their terror, had not thrown themselves upon him, and withheld him. Jack dropped the knife, and walked sullenly aside. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. I'm no mollycoddle. " Some innate sense of balance told her that something was wrong with these tales.
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