It wouldn’t be you. “John. It'll be your own fault if you don't soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. ‘Precisely. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. "There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow. You make a game with me, imbecile. Ramage—about the forty pounds.
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