“You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. Eight per cent. E.
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