" "What a strange history is mine!" said Thames. " That was true, thought Spurlock. “Perhaps. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. I don’t see that men need bank it with the women. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Wood's cries: but, regardless of this, he darted along a passage, gained the shop, and passed through an open door into the street. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life. " "Never mind," returned the stranger, dismounting; "you'll recollect me by and by, I've no doubt.
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