ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ’ No Latin? And no guns or daggers, naturally. Killed is too kind a word. They telephoned that you had absconded with ten thousand, and that if I would make good the loss within twenty-four hours, they would not prosecute.
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