The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. \"What's your number?\" Michelle asked Lucy.
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