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He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. “Don’t think that I have been playing the spy upon you,” he continued. ’ ‘Don’t count on it. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. ” “And made you give up a political meeting,” she reminded him. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 16-09-2024 19:58:09
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