Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. Torment! And so Ruth discovered him. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. No, this was imbecile. Let me take the satchel, sir. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. We’ve brought a carriage to take you back to London, and I’ve settled with Trodger, who has just given me a coherent account of the affair. She winked at him as he shut the door.
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