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It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. " "A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,—with a yellow beard, and a face as sly as a fox's?" "Hem!" replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; "the description's not amiss. “You silly fool,” he said. "Oh, Heavens!" cried Mrs. How old are you?” She asked. Can you imagine how dreadful it must be for them? Most of them arrive here almost penniless. “May I enquire,” he asked smoothly, “in what way my appearance contributes to your amusement? If there is a joke I should like to share it. " Having seen the chairmen concealed in the entry, Shotbolt proceeded to Mr. I'm an old hand at such things. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct.
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