"Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. I’ve never muffed an exam yet. "The long and the short o' the matter's this then," returned Sharples with dignity, "the Markis begs your acceptance o' ten guineas to drink his health. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. The moment I entered the room, and found you a prisoner in the hands of Jonathan Wild, I guessed how matters stood, and acted accordingly. Considering his convictions he felt that his remark was a generous one.
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