“The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. After a series of mental gymnastics—occupying the space of a few seconds—it came to him with a shock that here was a new specimen of the species. A glance satisfied Jonathan that the turnkey was not aware of the prisoner's escape; and he resolved not to destroy what he considered a good jest, by a premature disclosure of it.
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