“No, Lucy, it isn’t fine and I am sorry. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. He saw the tragedy on the boy's face; but he was merciless. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. ’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action.
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