Once again, he passed his hand over the surface and carefully noted all the obstacles. It is not for myself I fear. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. THIS, this glissade, would be damned scoundrelism. . I must say what I have to say!” “But not now—not here. Take, if you please, your own pistol.
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