“Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box. " "Of course—of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than that. \"What did you do?\" Mike asked. “How could I, when your sister sings now at the ‘Unusual’ every night and the name ‘Alcide’ flaunts from every placard in London?” “The likeness between us,” she said, “before I began to disfigure myself with rouge and ill-dressed hair, was remarkable. I don’t believe any one could have traced us here. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free.
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