‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill. He may not know you’re in England, but if he has the smallest knowledge of your character, he must surely be expecting you.
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