‘I think,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that it would be as well if you, Hilary, were to go and fetch the troops. You won't have him long. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. So he's come around, then? That's fine.
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