When she told him that the natives called her The Dawn Pearl, his delight was unbounded. The clanking of chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan's ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds. ‘Who’s this, then? Not soldiers again. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter.
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