Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. ” “What?” “That’s the devil of it!” “Devil of what?. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. I do not think that I have the Bohemian spirit at all. In the circles into which he had been born, the passing on of land was of vital importance.
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