" "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. " "Who are you!" demanded the fugitive, sternly. “I do hope I have been able to make you understand how I feel, that you don’t consider me a hopeless prig. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. Journeying blindly half way across the world, this man had found his quarry.
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