"Pick up that blade, Nab," vociferated Wild, finding himself hotly pressed, "and stab him. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. He buys his own clothes, chooses his own company, makes his own way of living.
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