. It does not matter to him either way. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. ‘Been led up the garden path by that confounded rapscallion. I don't threaten idly, as you know. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding.
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