"Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?" "Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly. "I can't," answered Blueskin. "Coming!—so is midnight—so is Jonathan Wild," retorted Jack, with a significant look at Thames. Perhaps because I don’t know. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. The signal of distress was evidently understood.
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