Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. “Thank you. "Well, lad, supposing you read what the editor has to say?" was McClintock's suggestion, when the frolic was over. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. If I were a clean, free man—We’ll have to talk of all these things. Too late now.
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