The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. "It is an ordinary wedding," he added; "some shopkeeper's daughter. A thousand eager assistants pressed behind him.
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