M. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. I’m sorry. "Now, then, Saint Giles!" interposed Sheppard, "are we to be kept here all night?" "Eh day!" exclaimed Sharples: "wot new-fledged bantam's this?" "One that wants to go to roost," replied Sheppard. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced.
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