Why, there's another party on the stair-head inquiring arter scullers; and, by the mass! they appear in a greater hurry than any on us. "Leave me to my fate," rejoined Jack. That's the sort of fool your nephew is!" "Not even a good time!" said the aunt, whimsically, as she stuffed the bills into her reticule. That's a queer yarn. It’s John. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes.
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