"Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. Wood fancied he recognised. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. And how comes his cloak on this knave's shoulders?" "It is his cloak, of a surety," returned Rowland "Harkye, sirrah," continued he, haughtily interrogating Wood; "where is the person from whom you received this mantle?" "Throttling a man isn't the way to make him answer questions," replied the carpenter, doggedly. ” Michelle gasped.
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