Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. “So she must have had you fairly young, right?” Lucy nodded again. He returned, blue towel in hand. Wood again made his appearance in a more composed frame of mind, and, at his daughter's earnest solicitation, was induced to partake of some refreshment. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. But he tells them that I am a spy.
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