“Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. He’s out in Phoenix last I heard. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. —Strype's Stow. ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. She guessed that he probably slept all of three hours a night at most. ‘Ah, non,’ exclaimed the husband. So overjoyed was the carpenter with the successful issue of his undertaking, that he scarcely paused a moment to recruit himself; but, securing the child, set out upon his return.
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